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MARIE 
CONWAY 
OEMLER 


THE 
PURPLE  HEIGHTS 


OF  CALIF.  T.TBRABY.  I,O8 


"We  have  met" 


THE 
PURPLE  HEIGHTS 


BY 

MARIE  CONWAY  OEMLER 

Author  of  "Slippy  McGee."  "A  Woman 
Named  Smith,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1920 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
THE  CENTUBT  Co. 


To 
JOHN  NORTON  OEMLER 

FROM  THE  LADY 

HIS  SON  USED  TO  CALL 

"MRS.  DADDY" 


2132187 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    THE  RED  ADMIRAL 3 

II    THE  PROMISE 20 

III  AT  GRIPS  WITH  LIFE 31 

IV  THE  SOUL  OF  BLACK  FOLKS  ....     43 
V    THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 68 

VI  GOOD  MORNING,  GOOD  LUCK  !  .     .     .     .82 

VII  WHERE  THE  ROAD  DIVIDED     .     .     .     .102 

VIII    CINDERELLA 120 

IX    PRICE-TAGS 139 

X    THE  DEAR  DAM-FOOL 157 

XI  His  GRANDMOTHER'S  HOUSE  ....  179 

XII    "NOT  BY  BREAD  ALONE" 197 

XIII  THE  BRIGHT  SHADOW 219 

XIV  SWAN  FEATHERS 244 

XV    "I,  Too,  IN  ARCADIA" 261 

XVI     THE  OTHER  MAN 289 

XVII    THE  GUTTER-CANDLE 305 

XVIII    KISMET!        327 

XIX    THE  POWER 345 

XX  AND  THE  GLORY                                      .  365 


THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 


CHARACTERS 

PETER   CHAMPNEYS:     Of  Riverton,  South  Carolina, 

and  Paris,  France. 
MARIA  CHAMPNEYS:    His  Mother. 
CHADWICK  CHAMPNEYS  :     The  God  in  the  Machine. 
EMMA  CAMPBELL:    A  Colored  Woman. 
ANNE  CHAMPNEYS,  NEE  NANCY  SIMMS:     Cinderella. 
MRS.  JOHN  HEMINGWAY:    Peter's  First  Teacher. 
JOHN  HEMINGWAY  :    An  American. 
JASON  VANDERVELDE:    An  Attorney  at  Law. 
MRS.  JASON  VANDERVELDE:    Anne's  Mentor. 
MRS.  MACGREGOR  :    A  Disciple  of  Hannah  More. 
GLENN  MITCHELL  :    A  Bright  Shadow. 
BERKELEY  HAYDEN  :     The  Other  Man. 
GRACEE:    A  Gutter-Candle. 
DENISE:    A  Perfume. 
THE  QUARTIER  LATIN. 
RIVERTON,  SOUTH  CAROLINA. 
THE  CAROLINA  COLORED  FOLKS. 
MARTIN  LUTHER:    A  Gray  Cat. 
SATAN  :    A  Black  Cat. 
THE  RED  ADMIRAL  :    A  Fairy. 


THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   BED   ADMIRAL 

THE  tiny  brown  house  cuddling  like  a  wren's 
nest  on  the  edge  of  the  longest  and  deepest 
of  the  tide-water  coves  that  cut  through 
Riverton  had  but  four  rooms  in  all, — the  kitchen 
tacked  to  the  back  porch,  after  the  fashion  of  South 
Carolina  kitchens,  the  shed  room  in  which  Peter  slept, 
the  dining-room  which  was  the  general  living-room  as 
well,  and  his  mother's  room,  which  opened  directly  off 
the  dining-room,  and  in  which  his  mother  sat  all  day 
and  sometimes  almost  all  night  at  her  sewing-machine. 
When  Peter  tired  of  lying  on  his  tummy  on  the 
dining-room  floor,  trying  to  draw  things  on  a  bit  of 
slate  or  paper,  he  liked  to  turn  his  head  and  watch 
the  cloth  moving  swiftly  under  the  jigging  needle, 
and  the  wheel  turning  so  fast  that  it  made  an  indis- 
tinct blur,  and  sang  with  a  droning  hum.  He  could 
see,  too,  a  corner  of  his  mother's  bed  with  the  patch- 
work quilt  on  it.  The  colors  of  the  quilt  were  pleas- 
antly subdued  in  their  old  age,  and  the  calico  star  set 
in  a  square  pleased  Peter  immensely.  He  thought  it 
a  most  beautiful  quilt.  There  was  visible  almost  all 
3 


4  THE  PUEPLE  HEIGHTS 

of  the  bureau,  an  old-fashioned  walnut  affair  with  a 
small,  dim,  wavy  glass,  and  drawers  which  you  pulled 
out  by  sticking  your  fingers  under  the  bunches  of 
flowers  that  served  as  knobs.  The  fireplaces  in  both 
rooms  were  in  a  shocking  state  of  disrepair,  but  one 
didn't  mind  that,  as  in  winter  a  fire  burned  in  them, 
and  in  summer  they  were  boarded  up  with  fireboards 
covered  with  cut-out  pictures  pasted  on  a  background 
of  black  calico.  Those  gay  cut-out  pictures  were  a 
source  of  never-ending  delight  to  Peter,  who  was  in- 
timately acquainted  with  every  flower,  bird,  cat, 
PUPPV>  and  child  of  them.  One  little  girl  with  a 
pink  parasol  and  a  purple  dress,  holding  a  posy  in  a 
lace-paper  frill,  he  would  have  dearly  loved  to  play 
with. 

Over  the  mantelpiece  in  his  mother's  room  hung 
his  father's  picture,  in  a  large  gilt  frame  with  an 
inside  border  of  bright  red  plush.  His  father  seemed 
to  have  been  a  merry-faced  fellow,  with  inquiring 
eyes,  plenty  of  hair,  and  a  very  nice  mustache.  This 
picture,  under  which  his  mother  always  kept  a  few 
flowers  or  some  bit  of  living  green,  was  Peter's  sole 
acquaintance  with  his  father,  except  when  he  trudged 
with  his  mother  to  the  cemetery  on  fine  Sundays,  and 
traced  with  his  small  forefinger  the  name  painted  in 
black  letters  on  a  white  wooden  cross : 

PETEB  DEVEBEAUX  CHAMPNEYS 
Aged  SO  Tears 

It  always  gave  small  Peter  an  uncomfortable  sen- 
sation to  trace  that  name,  which  was  also  his  own,  on 


THE  RED  ADMIRAL  5 

his  father's  headboard.  It  was  as  if  something  of 
himself  stayed  out  there,  very  lonesomely,  in  the  de- 
serted bury  ing-ground.  The  word  "father"  never 
conveyed  to  him  any  idea  or  image  except  a  crayon 
portrait  and  a  grave,  he  being  a  posthumous  child. 
The  really  important  figures  filling  the  background  of 
his  early  days  were  his  mother  and  big  black  Emma 
Campbell. 

Emma  Campbell  washed  clothes  in  a  large  wooden 
tub  set  on  a  bench  nailed  between  the  two  china- 
berry  trees  in  the  yard.  Peter  loved  those  china- 
berry  trees,  covered  with  masses  of  sweet-smelling 
lilac-colored  blossoms  in  the  spring,  and  with  clusters 
of  hard  green  berries  in  the  summer.  The  beautiful 
feathery  foliage  made  a  pleasant  shade  for  Emma 
Campbell's  wash-tubs.  Peter  loved  to  watch  her, 
she  looked  so  important  and  so  cheerful.  While  she 
worked  she  sang  endless  "speretuals,"  in  a  high, 
sweet  voice  that  swooped  bird-like  up  and  down. 

"I  wants  tub  climb  up  Ja-cob's  la-ad-dah, 
Ja-cob's  la-ad-dah,  Jacob's  la-ad-dah, 
I  wants  tuh  climb  up  Ja-cob's  la-ad-dah, 

But  I  cain't — 

Not  un-tell  I  makes  my  peace  wid  de  La-a-wd, 
En  I  praise  Him — de  La-a-wd! 
I  '11  praise  Him— tell  I  di-e, 
I'll  praise  Him— tell  I  die! 
I  '11  si-ng,  Je-ee-ru-suh-lem ! " 

Emma  Campbell  would  sing,  and  keep  time  with 
thumps  and  clouts  of  sudsy  clothes.  She  boiled  the 


6  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

clothes  in  the  same  large  black  iron  pot  in  which 
she  boiled  crabs  and  shrimp  in  the  summer-time. 
Peter  always  raked  the  chips  for  her  fire,  and  the 
leaves  and  pine-cones  mixed  with  them  gave  off  a 
pleasant  smoky  smell.  Emma  had  a  happy  fashion 
of  roasting  sweet  potatoes  under  the  wash-pot,  and 
you  could  smell  those,  too,  mingled  with  the  soapy 
odor  of  the  boiling  clothes,  which  she  sloshed  around 
with  a  sawed-off  broom-handle.  Other  smells  came 
from  over  the  cove,  of  pine-trees,  and  sassafras,  and 
bays,  and  that  indescribable  and  clean  odor  which  the 
winds  bring  out  of  the  woods. 

The  whole  place  was  full  of  pleasant  noises,  dear 
and  familiar  sounds  of  water  running  seaward  or 
swinging  back  landward,  always  with  odd  gurglings 
and  chucklings  and  small  sucking  noises,  and  runs  and 
rushes ;  and  of  the  myriad  rustlings  of  the  huge  live- 
oaks  hung  with  long  gray  moss;  and  the  sycamores 
frou-frouing  like  ladies'  dresses;  the  palmettos  rat- 
tled and  clashed,  with  a  sound  like  rain;  the  pines 
swayed  one  to  another,  and  only  in  wild  weather  did 
they  speak  loudly,  and  then  their  voices  were  very 
high  and  airy.  Peter  liked  the  pines  best  of  all.  His 
earliest  impression  of  beauty  and  of  mystery  was  the 
moon  walking  ''with  silver-sandaled  feet"  over  their 
tall  heads.  He  loved  it  all— the  little  house,  the  trees, 
the  tide-water,  the  smells,  the  sounds;  in  and  out  of 
which,  keeping  time  to  all,  went  the  whi-r-rr  of  his 
mother's  sewing-machine,  and  the  scuff-scuffing  of 
Emma  Campbell's  wash-board. 

Sometimes  his  mother,  pausing  for  a  second,  would 


THE  KED  ADMIRAL  7 

turn  to  look  at  him,  her  tired,  pale  face  lighting  up 
with  her  tender  mother-smile: 

"What  are  you  making  now,  Peter?"  she  would 
ask,  as  she  watched  his  laborious  efforts  to  put  down 
on  his  slate  his  conception  of  the  things  he  saw.  She 
was  always  vitally  interested  in  anything  Peter  said 
or  did. 

"Well,  I  started  to  make  you — or  maybe  it  was 
Emma.  But  I  thought  I  'd  better  hang  a  tail  on  it 
and  let  it  be  the  cat."  He  studied  the  result  gravely. 
"I  '11  stick  horns  on  it,  and  if  they  're  very  good 
horns  I  '11  let  it  be  the  devil ;  if  they  're  not,  it  can  be 
Mis'  Hughes 's  old  cow." 

After  a  while  the  things  that  Peter  was  always 
drawing  began  to  bear  what  might  be  called  a  family 
resemblance  to  the  things  they  were  intended  to  rep- 
resent. But  as  all  children  try  to  draw,  nobody  no- 
ticed that  Peter  Champneys  tried  harder  than  most, 
or  that  he  couldn't  put  his  fingers  on  a  bit  of  paper 
and  a  stub  of  pencil  without  trying  to  draw  some- 
thing— a  smear  that  vaguely  resembled  a  tree,  or  a 
lopsided  assortment  of  features  that  you  presently 
made  out  to  be  a  face. 

But  Peter  Champneys,  at  a  very  early  age,  had 
to  learn  things  less  pleasant  than  drawing.  That 
tiny  house  in  Riverton  represented  all  that  was  left 
of  the  once-great  Champneys  holdings,  and  the  little 
widow  was  hard  put  to  it  to  keep  even  that.  Before 
he  was  seven  Peter  knew  all  those  pitiful  subterfuges 
wherewith  genteel  poverty  tries  to  save  its  face;  he 
had  to  watch  his  mother,  who  wasn't  robust,  fight 


8  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

that  bitter  and  losing  fight  which  women  of  her  sort 
wage  with  evil  circumstances.  Peter  wore  shoes  only 
from  the  middle  of  November  to  the  first  of  March; 
his  clothes  were  presentable  only  because  his  mother 
had  a  genius  for  making  things  over.  He  wasn't 
really  hungry,  for  nobody  can  starve  in  a  small  town 
in  South  Carolina;  folks  are  too  kindly,  too  neigh- 
borly, too  generous,  for  anything  like  that  to  happen. 
They  have  a  tactful  fashion  of  coming  over  with  a 
plate  of  hot  biscuit  or  a  big  bowl  of  steaming  okra- 
and-tomato  soup. 

Often  a  bowl  of  that  soup  fetched  in  by  a  thought- 
ful neighbor,  or  an  apronful  of  sweet  potatoes  Emma 
Campbell  brought  with  her  when  she  did  the  wash- 
ing, kept  Peter's  backbone  and  wishbone  from  rub- 
bing noses.  But  there  were  rainy  days  when  neigh- 
bors didn't  send  in  anything,  Emma  wasn't  washing 
for  them  that  week,  sewing  was  scanty,  or  taxes  on 
the  small  holding  had  to  be  paid;  and  then  Peter 
Champneys  learned  what  an  insatiable  Shylock  the 
human  stomach  can  be.  He  learned  what  it  means 
not  to  have  enough  warm  covers  on  cold  nights,  nor 
warm  clothes  enough  on  cold  days.  He  accepted  it 
all  without  protest,  or  even  wonder.  These  things 
were  so  because  they  were  so. 

On  such  occasions  his  mother  drew  him  closer  to 
her  and  comforted  him  after  the  immemorial  South 
Carolina  fashion,  with  accounts  of  the  former  great- 
ness, glory,  and  grandeur  of  the  Champneys  family ; 
always  finishing  with  the  solemn  admonition  that,  no 
matter  what  happened,  Peter  must  never,  never  for- 


THE  RED  ADMIRAL  9 

get  Who  He  Was.  Peter,  who  was  a  literal  child 
in  his  way,  inferred  from  these  accounts  that  when 
the  South  Carolina  Champneyses  used  to  light  up  their 
big  house  for  a  party,  before  the  war,  the  folks  in 
North  Carolina  could  see  to  read  print  by  the  reflec- 
tion in  the  sky,  and  the  people  over  in  Georgia  thought 
they  were  witnessing  the  Aurora  Borealis. 

She  was  a  gentle,  timid,  pleasant  little  body,  Pe- 
ter's mother,  with  the  mild  manners  and  the  soft 
voice  of  the  South  Carolina  woman;  and  although 
the  proverbial  church-mouse  was  no  poorer,  Riverton 
would  tell  you,  sympathetically,  that  Maria  Champ- 
neys  had  her  pride.  For  one  thing,  she  was  per- 
fectly convinced  that  everybody  who  had  ever  been 
anybody  in  South  Carolina  was,  somehow,  related  to 
the  Champneyses.  If  they  weren't, — well,  it  wasn't 
to  their  credit,  that  's  all !  She  preferred  to  give 
them  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  Her  own  grandfather 
had  been  a  Virginian,  a  descendant  of  Pocahontas,  of 
course,  Pocahontas  having  been  created  by  Divine 
Providence  for  the  specific  purpose  of  ancestoring 
Virginians.  Just  as  everybody  in  New  England  is 
ancestored  by  one  of  those  inevitable  two  brothers 
who  came  over,  like  sardines  in  a  tin,  in  that  amaz- 
ingly elastic  Mayflower.  In  the  American  Genesis 
this  is  the  Sarah  and  these  be  the  Abrahams,  the 
mother  and  fathers  of  multitudes.  They  begin  our 
Begats. 

Mrs.  Champneys  sniffed  at  Mayflower  origins,  but 
she  was  firm  on  Pocahontas  for  herself,  and  adamant 
on  Francis  Marion  for  the  Champneyses.  The  fact 


10  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

that  the  Indian  Maid  had  but  one  bantling  to  her 
back,  and  the  Swamp  Fox  none  at  all,  didn't  in  the 
least  disconcert  her.  If  he  had  had  any  children, 
they  would  have  ancestored  the  Champneyses;  so 
there  you  were ! 

Peter,  who  had  a  fashion  of  thinking  his  own 
thoughts  and  then  keeping  them  to  himself,  presently 
hit  upon  the  truth.  His  was  one  of  those  Carolina 
coast  families  that,  stripped  by  the  war  and  irre- 
trievably ruined  by  Reconstruction,  have  ever  since 
been  steadily  decreasing  in  men,  mentality,  and 
money-power,  each  generation  slipping  a  little  farther 
down  hill ;  until,  in  the  case  of  the  Champneyses,  the 
family  had  just  about  reached  rock-bottom  in  himself, 
the  last  of  them.  There  had  been,  one  understood, 
an  uncle,  his  father's  only  brother,  Chadwick  Champ- 
neys.  Peter 's  mother  had  n  't  much  to  say  about 
this  Chadwick,  who  had  been  of  a  roving  and  restless 
nature,  trying  his  hand  at  everything  and  succeed- 
ing in  nothing.  As  poor  as  Job's  turkey,  what  must 
he  do  on  one  of  his  prowls  but  marry  some  unknown 
girl  from  the  Middle  West,  as  poor  as  himself.  After 
which  he  had  slipped  out  of  the  lives  of  every  one 
who  knew  him,  and  never  been  heard  of  again,  except 
for  the  report  that  he  had  died  somewhere  out  in 
Texas;  or  maybe  it  was  Arizona  or  Idaho,  or  Mexico, 
or  somewhere  in  South  America.  One  didn't  know. 

Behold  small  Peter,  then,  the  last  of  his  name,  ''all 
the  sisters  of  his  father's  house,  and  all  the  brothers, 
too."  Little,  thin,  dark  Peter,  with  his  knock-knees, 
his  large  ears,  his  shock  of  black  hair,  and,  fringed  by 


THE  RED  ADMIRAL  11 

thick  black  lashes,  eyes  of  a  hazel  so  clear  and  rare 
that  they  were  golden  like  topazes,  only  more  beauti- 
ful. Leonardo  would  have  loved  to  paint  Peter's 
quiet  face,  with  its  shy,  secret  smile,  and  eyes  that 
were  the  color  of  genius.  Riverton  thought  him  a 
homely  child,  with  legs  like  those  of  one 's  grandmoth- 
er's  Chippendale  chair,  and  eyes  like  a  cat's.  He  was 
so  quiet  and  reticent  that  nearly  everybody  except  his 
mother  and  Emma  Campbell  thought  him  deficient 
in  promise,  and  some  even  considered  him  "want- 
ing." 

Peter's  reputation  for  hopelessness  began  when  he 
went  to  school,  but  it  didn't  end  there.  He  really 
was  somewhat  of  a  trial  to  an  average  school-teacher, 
who  very  often  knows  less  of  the  human  nature  of  a 
child  than  any  other  created  being.  Peter  used  the 
carelessly  good-and-easy  English  one  inherits  in  the 
South,  but  he  couldn't  understand  the  written  rules 
of  grammar  to  save  his  life ;  he  was  totally  indifferent 
as  to  which  states  bounded  and  bordered  which ;  and 
he  had  been  known  to  spell ' '  physician ' '  with  an  f  and 
two  z's.  But  it  was  when  confronted  by  a  sum  that 
Peter  stood  revealed  in  his  true  colors  of  a  dunce ! 

"A  boy  buys  chestnuts  at  one  dollar  and  sixty 
cents  the  bushel  and  sells  them  at  ten  cents  the  quart, 
liquid  measure. — Peter  Champneys,  what  does  he 
get?" 

Peter  Champneys  stood  up,  and  reflected. 

"It  all  depends  on  the  judge,  and  whether  the 
boy  's  a  white  boy  or  a  nigger, ' '  he  decided.  "It  's 
against  the  law  to  use  liquid  measure,  you  know.  But 


12  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

I  should  think  he  'd  get  about  thirty  days,  if  he  's  a 
nigger." 

Whereupon  Peter  Champneys  went  to  the  principal 
with  a  note,  and  received  what  was  coming  to  him. 
When  he  returned  to  his  seat,  which  was  decidedly 
not  comfortable  just  then,  the  teacher  smiled  a  real, 
sure-enough  schoolma'am  smile,  and  remarked  that 
she  hoped  our  brilliant  scholar,  Mister  Champneys, 
knew  now  what  the  boy  got  for  his  chestnuts.  The 
class  laughed  as  good  scholars  are  expected  to  laugh 
on  such  occasions.  Peter  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
Herod,  Nero,  Bluebeard,  and  The  Cruel  Stepmother 
all  probably  began  their  bright  careers  as  school- 
teachers. 

Peter  was  a  friendly  child  who  didn't  have  the 
useful  art  of  making  friends.  He  used  to  watch  more 
gifted  children  wistfully.  He  would  so  much  have 
liked  to  play  familiarly  with  the  pretty,  impertinent, 
pigtailed  little  girls,  the  bright,  noisy,  cock-sure  little 
boys;  but  he  didn't  know  how  to  set  about  it,  and 
they  didn't  in  the  least  encourage  him  to  try.  Chil- 
dren aren't  by  any  means  angels  to  one  another. 
They  are,  as  often  as  not,  quite  the  reverse.  Peter 
was  loath  to  assert  himself,  and  he  was  shoved  aside  as 
the  gentle  and  the  just  usually  are. 

Being  a  loving  child,  he  fell  back  upon  the  lesser 
creatures,  and  discovered  that  the  Little  Brothers  do 
not  judge  one  upon  hearsay,  or  clothes,  or  personal 
appearance.  Theirs  is  the  infallible  test:  one  must 
be  kind  if  one  wishes  to  gain  and  to  hold  their  love. 

Martin  Luther  helped  teach  Peter  that.    Peter  dis- 


THE  RED  ADMIRAL  13 

covered  Martin  Luther,  a  shivering  gray  midget,  in 
the  cold  dusk  of  a  November  evening,  on  the  Riverton 
Road.  The  little  beast  rubbed  against  his  legs,  stuck 
up  a  ridiculous  tail,  and  mewed  hopefully.  Peter, 
who  needed  friendliness  himself,  was  unable  to  resist 
that  appeal.  He  buttoned  the  forlorn  kitten  inside 
his  old  jacket,  and,  feeling  the  grateful  warmth  of 
his  body,  it  cuddled  and  purred.  The  wise  little  cat 
didn't  care  the  tip  of  a  mouse's  tail  whether  or  not 
Peter  was  the  congenital  dunce  his  teacher  had  de- 
clared him  to  be,  only  that  morning.  The  kitten  knew 
he  was  just  the  sort  of  boy  to  show  compassion  to  lost 
kittens,  and  trusted  and  loved  him  at  sight. 

His  mother  was  doubtful  as  to  the  wisdom  of  adopt- 
ing a  third  member  into  a  family  which  could  barely 
feed  two  without  one  going  half  hungry.  Also,  she 
disliked  cats  intensely.  She  was  most  horribly  afraid 
of  cats.  She  was  just  about  to  say  that  he  'd  have  to 
give  the  kitten  to  somebody  better  able  to  care  for  it, 
but  seeing  the  resigned  and  hopeless  expression  that 
crept  into  Peter's  face,  she  said,  instead,  that  she 
reckoned  they  could  manage  to  feed  the  little  wretch, 
provided  he  kept  it  out  of  her  room.  Peter  joyfully 
agreed,  washed  the  cat  in  his  own  basin,  fed  it  with 
a  part  of  his  own  supper,  and  took  it  to  bed  with  him, 
where  it  purred  itself  to  sleep.  Thus  came  Martin 
Luther  to  the  house  of  Champneys. 

When  Peter  had  chores  to  do  the  cat  scampered 
about  him  with  sidewise  leapings  and  gambolings,  and 
made  his  labor  easier  by  seasoning  it  with  harmless 
amusement.  When  he  wrestled  with  his  lessons  Mar- 


14  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

tin  Luther  sat  sedately  on  the  table  and  watched  him, 
every  now  and  then  rubbing  a  sympathetic  head 
against  him.  When  he  woke  up  at  night  in  the  shed 
room,  he  liked  to  put  out  his  hand  and  touch  the 
warm,  soft,  silky  body  near  him.  Peter  adored  his 
cat,  which  was  to  him  a  friend. 

And  then  Martin  Luther  took  to  disappearing,  mys- 
teriously, for  longer  and  longer  intervals.  Peter  was 
filled  with  apprehensions,  for  Martin  Luther  wasn't 
a  democratic  soul ;  aside  from  his  affection  for  Peter, 
the  cat  was  as  wild  as  a  panther.  The  child  was  al- 
most sick  with  anxiety.  He  wandered  around  River- 
ton  hunting  for  the  beast  and  calling  it  by  name,  a 
proceeding  which  further  convinced  Riverton  folk 
that  poor  Maria  Champneys's  boy  was  not  what  one 
might  call  bright.  Fancy  carrying  on  like  that  about 
nothing  but  a  cat!  But  Peter  used  to  lie  awake  at 
night,  lonesomely,  and  cry  because  he  was  afraid 
some  evil  had  befallen  the  perverse  creature  of  his 
affections.  Then  he  prayed  that  God  would  look 
out  for  Martin  Luther,  if  He  hadn't  already  remem- 
bered to  do  so.  The  world  of  a  sudden  seemed  a  very 
big,  sad,  unfriendly  place  for  a  little  boy  to  live  in, 
when  he  could  n't  even  have  a  cat  in  it ! 

The  disappearance  of  Martin  Luther  was  Peter's 
first  sorrow  that  his  mother  could  n  't  fully  share,  as 
he  knew  she  didn't  like  cats.  Martin  Luther  had 
known  that,  too,  and  had  kept  his  distance.  He 
hadn't  even  made  friends  with  Emma  Campbell,  who 
loved  cats  to  the  extent  of  picking  up  other  people's 
when  their  owners  weren't  looking.  This  cat  had 


THE  RED  ADMIRAL  15 

loved  nobody  but  Peter,  a  fact  that  endeared  it  to 
him  a  thousandfold,  and  made  its  probable  fate  a 
darker  grief. 

One  afternoon,  when  Martin  Luther  had  been  gone 
so  long  that  Peter  had  about  given  up  hopes  of  ever 
seeing  him  again,  Emma  Campbell,  who  had  been 
washing  in  the  yard,  dashed  into  the  house  screech- 
ing that  the  woodshed  was  full  of  snakes. 

Peter  joyfully  threw  aside  his  grammar — snakes 
had  n  't  half  the  terror  for  him  that  substantives  had 
— and  rushed  out  to  investigate,  while  his  mother 
frantically  besought  him  not  to  go  near  the  wood- 
shed, to  get  an  ax,  to  run  for  the  town  marshal,  to 
run  and  ring  the  fire-bell,  to  burn  down  that  wood- 
shed before  they  were  all  stung  to  death  in  their 
beds! 

Cautiously  Peter  investigated.  Perhaps  a  chicken- 
snake  had  crawled  into  the  shed;  perhaps  a  black- 
snake  was  hunting  in  there  for  rats;  over  there  in 
that  dark  corner,  behind  sticks  of  pine,  something 
was  moving.  And  then  he  heard  a  sound  he  knew. 

"Snakes  nothin'!"  shouted  Peter,  joyfully.  "It  's 
Martin  Luther !"  He  got  on  his  hands  and  knees  and 
squirmed  and  wriggled  himself  behind  the  wood. 
There  he  remained,  transfixed.  His  faith  had  re- 
ceived a  shocking  blow. 

"Oh,  Martin  Luther!"  cried  Peter,  with  mingled 
joy  and  relief  and  reproach.  "Oh,  Martin  Luther! 
How  you  've  fooled  me ! ' '  Martin  Luther  was  a 
proud  and  purring  mother. 

Peter   was   bewildered   and   aggrieved.    "If    I  'd 


16  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

called  him  Mary  or  Martha  in  the  beginning,  I  'd  be 
glad  for  him  to  have  as  many  kittens  as  he  wanted 
to,"  he  told  his  mother.  "But  how  can  I  ever  trust 
him  again  ?  He — he  ain  't  Martin  Luther  any  more ! ' ' 
And  of  a  sudden  he  began  to  cry. 

Emma  Campbell,  with  a  bundle  of  clean  wet  clothes 
on  her  brawny  arm,  shook  her  head  at  him. 

"Lawd,  no,  Peter!  'T  ain't  de  cat  whut  's  been 
foolin'  you;  it  's  you  whut  's  been  foolin'  yo'  own 
self.  For,  lo,  fum  de  foundations  ob  dis  worl',  he  was 
a  she!  Mustn'  blame  de  cat,  chile.  'Cause  ef  you 
does,"  said  Emma,  waving  an  arm  like  a  black  mule's 
hind  leg  for  strength,  "ef  you  does,  'stead  o'  layin' 
de  blame  whah  it  natchelly  b 'longs — on  yo'  own 
ig 'nance,  Peter — you  '11  go  thoo  dis  worl'  wid  every 
Gawd's  tom-cat  you  comes  by  havin'  kittens  on  you !" 

"I  feel  like  a  father  to  those  kittens,"  said  Peter, 
gravely.  But  it  was  plain  that  Martin  Luther 's  furry 
fourlegs  had  put  Peter's  nose  out  of  joint! 

Things  were  getting  worse  and  worse  at  school,  too, 
although  Peter  considerately  concealed  this  from  his 
mother.  He  didn't  tell  her  that  the  promotions  she 
was  so  proud  of  had  come  to  him  simply  because  his 
teachers  were  so  desperately  anxious  to  get  rid  of 
him!  And  only  to-day  an  incident  had  happened 
that  seared  his  soul.  He  had  been  forced  to  stand  out 
on  the  floor  for  twenty  cruel,  grueling  minutes,  to  be 
a  Horrible  Example  to  a  tittering  class.  It  had  been 
a  long,  wearisome  day,  when  one 's  head  ached  because 
one's  stomach  was  empty.  Peter's  eyes  stung  and 
smarted,  his  lip  was  bruised  because  he  had  bitten  it 


THE  RED  ADMIRAL  17 

to  keep  it  from  trembling,  and  his  heart  was  more  like 
a  boil  in  his  breast  than  a  little  boy's  heart.  When 
he  was  finally  released  for  the  day  he  didn't  linger, 
but  got  away  as  fast  as  his  thin  legs  would  carry  him. 
Once  he  was  sure  he  was  out  of  sight  of  all  unfriendly 
eyes  he  let  himself  go  and  cried  as  he  trudged  along 
the  Riverton  Road.  And  there,  in  the  afternoon  sun- 
light, he  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Red  Admiral. 

Just  at  that  spot  the  Riverton  Road  was  tree- 
shaded  and  bird-haunted.  There  were  clumps  of  elder 
here  and  there,  and  cassena  bushes,  and  tall  fennel  in 
the  corners  of  the  old  worm-fence  bordering  the 
fields  on  each  side.  The  worm-fence  was  of  a  polished, 
satiny,  silvery  gray,  with  trimmings  of  green  vines 
clinging  to  it,  wild-flowers  peeping  out  of  its  crotches, 
and  tall  purple  thistles  swaying  their  heads  toward  it. 
On  one  especially  tall  thistle  the  Red  Admiral  had 
come  to  anchor. 

He  wore  upon  the  skirts  of  his  fine  dark-colored 
frock-coat  a  red-orange  border  sewed  with  tiny  round 
black  buttons ;  across  the  middle  of  his  fore-wings, 
like  the  sash  of  an  order,  was  a  broad  red  ribbon, 
and  the  spatter  of  white  on  the  tips  may  have  been 
his  idea  of  epaulets;  or  maybe  they  were  nature's  Dis- 
tinguished Service  medals  given  him  for  conspicuous 
bravery,  for  there  is  no  more  gallant  sailor  of  the 
skies  than  the  Red  Admiral. 

When  this  gentleman  comes  to  anchor  on  a  flower 
he  hoists  his  gay  sails  erect  over  his  fat  black  back, 
in  order  that  his  under  wings  may  be  properly  ad- 
mired; for  he  knows  very  well  that  the  cunningest 


18  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

craftsman  that  ever  worked  with  mosaics  and  metals 
never  turned  out  a  better  bit  of  jewel- work  than  those 
under  wings. 

It  was  this  piece  of  painted  perfection  that  caught 
Peter  Champneys's  unhappy  eyes  and  brought  him  to 
a  standstill.  Peter  forgot  that  he  was  the  school 
dunce,  that  tears  were  still  on  his  cheeks,  that  he  had 
a  headache  and  an  empty  stomach.  His  eyes  began 
to  shine  unwontedly,  brightening  into  a  golden  limpid- 
ity, and  his  lips  puckered  into  a  smile. 

The  Red  Admiral,  if  one  might  judge  by  his  un- 
rubbed  wings  and  the  new  and  glossy  vividness  of  his 
colorings,  may  have  been  some  nine  hours  old.  Peter, 
by  the  entry  in  his  mother's  Bible,  was  nine  years 
old.  Quite  instinctively  Peter 's  brown  fingers  groped 
for  a  pencil.  At  the  feel  of  it  he  experienced  a 
thrill  of  satisfaction.  Down  on  his  knees  he  went, 
and  crept  forward,  nearer  and  nearer;  for  one  must 
come  as  the  wind  comes  who  would  approach  the  Red 
Admiral.  Peter  had  no  paper,  so  a  fly-leaf  of  his 
geography  would  have  to  do.  All  athrill,  he  worked 
with  his  bit  of  pencil;  and  on  the  fly-leaf  grew  the 
worm-fence  with  the  blackberry  bramble  climbing 
along  its  corners,  and  the  fennel,  and  the  elder 
bushes  near  by ;  and  in  the  foreground  the  tall  thistle, 
with  the  butterfly  upon  it.  The  Red  Admiral  is  a 
gourmet ;  he  lingers  daintily  over  his  meals ;  so  Peter 
had  time  to  make  a  careful  sketch  of  him.  This  done, 
he  sketched  in  the  field  beyond,  and  the  buzzard  hang- 
ing motionless  in  the  sky. 

It  was  crude  and  defective,  of  course,  and  a  casual 


THE  KED  ADMIRAL  19 

eye  would  n  't  have  glanced  twice  at  it,  but  a  true 
teacher  would  instantly  have  recognized  the  value,  not 
of  what  it  performed,  but  of  what  it  presaged.  For 
all  its  faults  it  was  bold  and  rapid,  like  the  Admiral's 
flight,  and  it  had  the  Admiral's  airy  grace  and  free- 
dom. It  seized  the  outlines  of  things  with  unerring 
precision. 

The  child  kneeling  in  the  dust  of  the  Riverton 
Road,  with  an  old  geography  open  on  his  knee,  felt 
in  his  thin  breast  a  faint  flutter,  as  of  wings.  He 
looked  at  the  sketch;  he  watched  the  Red  Admiral 
finish  his  meal  and  go  scudding  down  the  wind.  And 
he  knew  he  had  found  the  one  thing  he  could  do,  the 
one  thing  he  wanted  to  do,  that  he  must  and  would 
do.  It  was  as  if  the  butterfly  had  been  a  fairy,  to 
open  for  Peter  a  tiny  door  of  hope.  He  wrote  under 
the  sketch : 

Jun.  2,  189—  This  day  I  notissed  the  red  and  blak  buter- 
fly  on  the  thissel. 

He  stared  at  this  for  a  while,  and  added : 

P.  S.  In  futcher  watch  for  this  buterfly  witch  mite  be  a 
fary. 

Then  he  went  trudging  homeward.  He  was  smil- 
ing, his  own  shy,  secret  smile.  He  held  his  head  erect 
and  looked  ahead  of  him  as  if  in  the  far,  far  distance 
he  had  seen  something,  a  beckoning  something,  toward 
which  he  was  to  strive.  Barefooted  Peter,  poverty- 
stricken,  lonely  Peter  for  the  first  time  glimpsed  the 
purple  heights. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  PROMISE 

IT  is  written  in  the  Live  Green  Book  that  one  may 
not  stumble  upon  one  of  its  secrets  without  at 
the  same  discovering  something  about  others 
quite  as  fascinating  and  worth  exploring.  This  is  a 
wise  and  blessed  law,  which  the  angels  of  the  Little 
Peoples  are  always  trying  to  have  enforced.  Peter 
Champneys  suspected  the  Red  Admiral  of  being  a 
fairy;  so  when  he  ran  fleet-footed  over  the  fields  and 
through  the  woods  and  alongside  the  worm-fences  after 
the  Admiral,  the  angels  of  the  Little  Peoples  turned 
his  boyish  head  aside  and  made  him  see  birds'  wings, 
and  bees,  and  the  shapes  of  leaves,  and  the  colors  of 
trees  and  clouds,  and  the  faces  of  flowers.  It  is  fur- 
ther written  that  one  may  not  intimately  know  the 
Little  Peoples  without  loving  them.  "When  one  be- 
gins to  love,  one  begins  to  grow.  Peter,  then,  was 
growing. 

Lying  awake  in  the  dark  now  wasn't  a  thing  to 
be  dreaded ;  the  dark  was  no  longer  filled  with  shapes 
of  fear,  for  Peter  was  beginning  to  discover  in  him- 
self a  power  of  whose  unique  and  immense  value  he 
was  not  as  yet  aware.  It  was  the  great  power  of  be- 
ing able  clearly  to  visualize  things,  of  bringing  be- 
20 


THE  PROMISE  21 

fore  his  mind's  eye  whatever  he  had  seen,  with  every 
distinction  of  shape  and  size  and  color  sharply  pres- 
ent, and  accurately  to  portray  it  in  the  absence  of  the 
original.  If  one  should  ask  him,  "What  's  the  shape 
of  the  milkweed  butterfly's  wing,  and  the  color  of  the 
spice-bush  swallowtail,  Peter  Champneys?  What 
does  the  humming-bird's  nest  look  like?  What  's  the 
color  of  the  rainbow-snake  and  of  the  cotton-mouth 
moccasin?  What  's  the  difference  between  the  iron- 
weed  and  the  aster?" — Ask  Peter  things  like  that, 
and  lend  him  a  bit  of  paper  and  a  pencil,  and  he  lit- 
erally had  the  answers  at  his  finger-tips. 

But  they  never  asked  him  what  would,  to  him, 
have  been  natural  questions;  they  wished  him,  in- 
stead, to  tell  them  where  the  Onion  River  flows,  and 
the  latitude  of  the  middle  of  Kamchatka,  and  to  spell 
phthisis,  and  on  what  date  the  Battle  of  Something- 
orother  was  fought,  and  if  a  man  buys  old  iron  at  such 
a  price,  and  makes  it  over  into  stoves  weighing  so 
much,  and  sells  his  stoves  at  such  another  price,  what 
does  it  profit  him,  and  other  such-like  illuminating 
and  uplifting  problems,  warranted  to  make  any  school- 
child  wiser  than  Solomon.  It  is  a  beautiful  system; 
only,  God,  who  is  no  respecter  of  systems,  every  now 
and  then  delights  to  flout  it  by  making  him  a  dunce 
like  Peter  Champneys,  to  be  the  torment  of  school- 
teachers— and  the  delight  of  the  angels  of  the  Little 
Peoples. 

Those  long,  silent,  solitary  hours  in  the  open  gave 
Peter  the  power  of  concentration,  and  a  serenity  that 
sat  oddly  on  his  slight  shoulders.  Thoughts  came  to 


22  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

him,  out  there,  that  he  could  n  't  put  into  words  nor 
yet  set  down  upon  paper. 

On  warm  nights,  when  his  mother's  sewing-machine 
was  for  a  time  still  and  the  tired  little  woman  slept, 
Peter  slipped  out  of  the  shed  room  into  a  big,  white, 
enchanted  world,  and  saw  things  that  are  to  be  seen 
only  by  an  imaginative  and  beauty-loving  little  boy 
in  the  light  of  the  midsummer  moon.  Big  hawk- 
moths,  swift  and  sudden,  darted  by  him  with  owl- 
like  wings.  Mocking-birds  broke  into  silvery,  irre- 
pressible singing,  and  water-birds  croaked  and  rus- 
tled in  the  cove,  where  the  tide-water  lipped  the  land. 
The  slim,  black  pine-trees  nodded  and  bent  to  one 
another,  with  the  moon  looking  over  their  shoulders. 
Something  wild  and  sweet  and  secret  invaded  the 
little  boy's  spirit,  and  stayed  on  in  his  heart.  Maybe 
it  was  the  heart-shaking  call  of  the  whippoorwill,  or 
the  song  of  the  mocking-bird,  truest  voices  of  the 
summer  night;  or  perhaps  it  was  the  spirit  of  the 
great  green  luna-moth,  loveliest  of  all  the  daughters 
of  the  dark.  Or  perhaps  the  Red  Admiral  was  indeed 
a  fairy,  as  Peter  said  he  was. 

Peter  was  superstitious  about  the  Red  Admiral. 
He  was  a  good-luck  sign,  a  sort  of  flying  four-leaf 
clover.  Peter  noticed  that  whenever  the  Red  Admiral 
crossed  his  path  now,  something  pleasant  always  im- 
pended; it  meant  that  he  wouldn't  be  very  unhappy 
in  school;  or  maybe  he  'd  find  a  thrush's  nest,  or  the 
pink  orchid.  Or  the  meeting  might  simply  imply 
something  nice  and  homey,  such  as  a  little  treat  his 


THE  PROMISE  23 

mother  contrived  to  make  for  him  when  sewing  had 
been  somewhat  better-paying  than  usual,  and  she 
could  sit  by  the  table  and  enjoy  his  enjoyment  as 
only  one's  mother  can.  Decidedly,  the  Red  Admiral 
was  good  luck! 

So,  all  along,  quietly,  persistently,  not  exactly  se- 
cretly but  still  all  by  himself,  Peter  had  been  learn- 
ing to  use  his  fingers,  as  he  had  been  learning  to  use 
his  eyes  and  ears.  He  was  morbidly  shy  about  it.  It 
never  occurred  to  him  that  anybody  might  admire 
anything  he  could  do,  as  nobody  had  ever  admired 
anything  he  had  done. 

On  his  mother's  last  birthday — though  Peter  did  n't 
know  then  that  it  was  to  be  her  last — he  made  for 
her  his  first  sketch  in  water-colors.  By  herculean 
efforts  he  had  managed  to  get  his  materials;  he  had 
picked  berries,  weeded  gardens  until  his  head  whirled 
and  his  back  ached,  chopped  fire-wood,  run  errands, 
caught  crabs.  Presently  he  had  his  paper  and  col- 
ors. 

It  was  a  beautiful  surprise  for  Peter's  mother,  that 
sketch,  which  was  a  larger  copy  of  the  one  on  the  fly- 
leaf of  his  geography.  There  was  the  gray  worm- 
fence,  a  bit  of  brown  ditch,  an  elder  in  flower,  a  tall 
purple  thistle,  and  on  it  the  Red  Admiral.  Peter 
wished  to  make  his  mother  personally  acquainted 
with  the  Red  Admiral,  so  he  printed  on  the  back  of 
his  picture: 

My  buterfly  done  for  mother's  burthday  by  her  loveing  son 
Peter  Champneys  the  llth  Year  of  his  Aige. 


24  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

The  little  woman  cried,  and  held  him  off  the  better 
to  look  at  him,  with  love,  and  wonder,  and  pride, 
and  drew  his  head  to  her  breast  and  kissed  his  hair 
and  eyes,  and  wished  his  dear,  dear  father  had  been 
there  to  see  what  her  wonder-child  could  do. 

"I  can't  to  save  my  life  see  where  you  get  such  a 
lovely  gift  from,  Peter.  It  must  be  just  the  grace  of 
God  that  sends  it  to  you.  Your  dear  father  could  n't 
so  much  as  draw  a  straight  line  unless  he  had  a  ruler, 
I  'm  sure.  And  I  'm  not  bright  at  all,  except  maybe 
about  sewing.  But  you  are  different.  I  've  always 
felt  that,  Peter,  from  the  time  you  were  a  little  baby. 
At  the  age  of  five  months  you  cut  two  teeth  without 
crying  once!  You  were  a  wonderful  baby.  I  knew 
it  was  in  you  to  do  something  remarkable.  Never 
you  doubt  your  mother's  word  about  that,  Peter! 
You  '11  make  your  mark  in  the  world  yet !  God 
couldn't  fail  to  answer  my  prayers — and  you  the 
last  Champneys." 

Peter  was  too  innately  kind  and  considerate  to  dim 
her  joy  with  any  doubts.  He  knew  how  he  was  rated 
— berated  is  the  better  word  for  it.  He  knew  acutely 
how  bad  his  marks  were :  his  shoulders  too  often  bore 
witness  to  them.  The  words  "dunce"  and  "sissy" 
buzzed  about  his  ears  like  stinging  gnats.  So  he 
wasn't  made  vainglorious  by  his  mother's  praise. 
He  received  it  with  cautious  reservations.  But  her 
faith  in  him  filled  him  with  an  immense  tenderness 
for  the  little  woman,  and  a  passionate  desire,  a  very 
agony  of  desire,  to  struggle  toward  her  aspirations 
for  him,  to  make  good,  to  repay  her  for  all  the  priva- 


THE  PROMISE  25 

tions  she  had  endured.  A  lump  came  in  his  throat 
when  he  saw  her  place  the  little  sketch  under  his. 
father's  picture,  where  her  eyes  could  open  upon  it 
the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  and  close  to  it  at  night. 

"Ah,  my  dear!  God's  will  be  done — I  'm  not  com- 
plaining— but  I  wish,  oh,  how  I  wish  you  could  be 
here  to  see  what  our  dear  child  can  do ! "  she  told 
the  smiling  crayon  portrait.  "Some  of  these  days 
the  little  son  you  've  never  seen  is  going  to  be  a  great 
man  with  a  great  name — your  name,  my  dear,  your 
name ! ' ' 

Her  face  kindled  into  a  sort  of  exaltation.  Two 
large  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks,  and  two  larger  ones 
rolled  down  Peter's.  His  heart  swelled,  and  again 
he  felt  in  his  breast  the  flutter  as  of  wings.  Far, 
far  away,  on  the  dim  and  distant  horizon,  something 
glimmered,  like  sunlight  upon  airy  peaks. 

Peter's  mother  wasn't  at  all  beautiful — just  a 
little,  thin,  sallow  woman  with  mild  brown  eyes  and 
graying  hair,  and  a  sensitive  mouth,  and  dressed  in  a 
worn  black  skirt  and  a  plain  white  shirt-waist.  Her 
fingers  were  needle-pricked,  and  she  stooped  from 
bending  so  constantly  over  her  sewing-machine.  She 
had  been  a  pretty  girl ;  now  she  was  thirty-five  years 
old  and  looked  fifty.  She  wasn't  in  the  least  intel- 
lectual; she  hadn't  even  the  gift  of  humor,  or  she 
wouldn't  have  thought  herself  a  sinner  and  besought 
Heaven  to  forgive  sins  she  never  committed.  She  used 
to  weep  over  the  Fifty-first  Psalm,  take  courage  from 
the  Thirty-seventh,  and  when  she  hadn't  enough 
food  for  her  body  feed  her  spirit  on  the  Twenty-third. 


26  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

She  didn't  know  that  it  is  women  like  her  who  man- 
age to  make  and  keep  the  earth  worth  while.  This 
timid  and  modest  soul  had  the  courage  of  a  soldier 
and  the  patience  of  a  martyr  under  the  daily  scourg- 
ings  inflicted  upon  the  sensitive  by  biting  poverty. 
Peter  might  very  well  have  received  far  less  from  a 
brilliant  and  beautiful  mother  than  he  received  from 
the  woman  whose  only  gifts  and  graces  were  such  as 
spring  from  a  loving,  unselfish,  and  pure  heart. 

For  Peter's  sake  she  fought  while  she  had  strength 
to  fight,  enduring  all  things,  hoping  all  things.  She 
did  n't  even  know  she  was  sacrificing  herself,  because, 
as  Emma  Campbell  said,  "Miss  Maria  's  jes'  natchelly 
all  mother."  But  of  a  sudden,  the  winter  that  Peter 
was  turning  twelve,  the  tide  of  battle  went  against 
her.  The  needle-pricked,  patient  fingers  dropped 
their  work.  She  said  apologetically,  "I  'm  sorry,  but 
I  'm  afraid  I  'm  too  sick  to  stay  up  any  longer." 
Nobody  guessed  how  slight  was  her  hold  upon  life. 
When  the  neighbors  came  in,  after  the  kindly  Caro- 
lina custom,  she  was  cheerful  enough,  but  quiet.  But 
then,  Maria  Champneys  was  always  quiet. 

There  came  a  day  when  she  was  unusually  quiet, 
even  for  her.  Toward  dusk  the  neighbor  who  had 
watched  with  her  went  home.  At  the  door  she  said 
hopefully : 

"You  '11  be  better  in  the  morning." 

"Yes,  I  '11  be  better  in  the  morning,"  the  sick 
woman  repeated.  After  a  while  Emma  Campbell, 
who  had  been  looking  after  the  house,  went  away  to 


THE  PROMISE  27 

her  cabin  across  the  cove.  Peter  and  his  mother  were 
alone. 

It  was  a  darkish,  gusty  night,  and  a  small  fire 
burned  in  the  open  fireplace.  Shadows  danced  on 
the  walls,  and  every  now  and  then  the  wind  came 
and  tapped  at  the  windows  impatiently.  On  the 
closed  sewing-machine  an  oil  lamp  burned,  turned 
rather  low.  Peter  sat  in  a  rocking-chair  drawn  close 
to  his  mother's  bedside  and  dozed  fitfully,  waking  to 
watch  the  face  on  the  pillow.  It  was  very  quiet  there 
in  the  poor  room,  with  the  clock  ticking,  and  the  soft 
sound  of  the  settling  log. 

Just  before  dawn  Peter  replenished  the  fire,  moving 
carefully  lest  he  disturb  his  mother.  But  when  he 
turned  toward  the  bed  again  she  was  wide  awake  and 
looking  at  him  intently.  Peter  ran  to  her,  kissed  her 
cheek,  and  held  her  hand  in  his.  Her  fingers  were 
cold,  and  he  chafed  them  between  his  palms. 

"Peter,"  said  she,  very  gently,  "I  've  got  to  go, 
my  dear."  There  was  no  fear  in  her.  The  child 
looked  at  her  piteously,  his  eyes  big  and  frightened 
in  his  pale  face. 

"And  now  I  'm  at  the  end,"  said  she  bravely,  "  I  'm 
not  afraid  to  leave  you,  Peter.  You  are  a  brave  child, 
and  a  good  child.  You  couldn't  be  dishonorable,  or 
a  coward,  or  a  liar,  or  unkind,  to  save  your  life.  You 
will  always  be  gentle,  and  generous,  and  just.  When 
one  is  where  I  am  to-night,  that  is  all  that  really  mat- 
ters. Nothing  but  goodness  counts." 

Peter,  with  her  hand  against  his  cheek,  tried  not 


28  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

to  weep.  To  conceal  his  terror  and  grief,  and  the 
shock  of  this  thing  come  upon  him  in  the  middle  of 
the  night,  to  spare  her  the  agony  of  witnessing  his 
agony,  was  almost  intuitive  with  him.  He  braced 
himself,  and  kept  his  self-control.  She  seemed  to  un- 
derstand, for  the  hand  he  held  against  his  cheek  tried, 
feebly,  to  caress  it.  It  did  n't  tire  her  to  talk,  appar- 
ently, for  her  voice  was  firm  and  clear. 

"You  're  a  gifted  child,  as  well  as  a  good  child, 
Peter.  But — our  people  here  don't  understand  you 
yet,  my  dearest.  Your  sort  of  brightness  is  different 
from  theirs — and  better,  because  it  's  rarer  and  slower. 
Hold  fast  to  yourself,  Peter.  You  're  going  to  be  a 
great  man." 

Peter  stroked  her  hand.  The  two  looked  at  each 
other,  a  long,  long,  luminous  look. 

"My  son, — your  chance  is  coming.  I  know  that  to- 
night. And  when  it  comes,  oh,  for  God's  sake,  for 
my  sake,  for  all  the  Champneyses '  sake,  take  it,  Peter, 
take  it!"  Her  voice  rose  at  that,  her  hand  tightened 
upon  his;  she  looked  at  him  imploringly. 

"Take  it  for  my  sake,"  she  said  with  terrible  ear- 
nestness and  intensity.  "Take  it,  darling,  and  prove 
that  I  was  right  about  you.  Remember  how  all  my 
years,  Peter,  I  toiled  and  prayed — all  for  you,  my 
dearest,  all  for  you!  Remember  me  in  that  hour, 
Peter,  and  don't  fail  me,  don't  fail  me!" 

' '  Oh,  Mother,  I  won 't  fail  you !  I  won 't  fail  you ! " 
cried  Peter,  and  at  that  the  tears  came. 

His  mother  smiled,  exquisitely ;  a  smile  of  faith  re- 
assured and  hope  fulfilled,  and  love  contented.  That 


THE  PROMISE  29 

smile  on  a  dying  mouth  stayed,  with  other  beautiful 
and  imperishable  memories,  in  Peter's  heart.  Pres- 
ently he  ventured  to  ask  her,  timidly : 

"Shall  I  go  for  somebody,  Mother?" 

"Are  you  afraid,  dear?" 

"No,"  said  Peter. 

"Then  stay  by  me.  Just  you  and  me  together. 
You — you  are  all  I  have — I  don't  need  anybody  else. 
Stay  with  me,  Son, — for  a  little  while." 

Outside  you  could  hear  the  wind  moving  restlessly, 
and  the  trees  complaining,  and  the  tide-water  whis- 
pering. The  dark  night  was  filled  with  a  multi- 
tudinous murmuring.  For  a  long  while  Peter  and 
his  mother  clung  to  each  other.  From  time  to  time 
she  whispered  to  him — such  pitiful  comfortings  as 
love  may  lend  in  its  extremity. 

The  black  night  paled  into  a  gray  glimmer  of  dawn. 
Peter  held  fast  to  the  hand  he  couldn't  warm.  Her 
face  was  sharp  and  pale  and  pinched.  She  looked 
very  little  and  thin  and  helpless.  The  bed  seemed  too 
big  for  so  small  a  woman. 

More  gray  light  stole  through  the  windows.  The 
lamp  on  the  closed  machine  looked  ghostly,  the  room 
filled  with  shifting  shadows.  Maria  Champneys 
turned  her  head  on  her  pillow,  and  stared  at  her  son 
with  eyes  he  didn't  know  for  his  mother's.  They 
were  full  of  a  flickering  light,  as  of  a  lamp  going  out. 

"  'Though  I  walk — through  the  valley — '  "  Here 
her  voice,  a  mere  thin  trickle  of  sound,  failed  her. 
As  if  pressed  by  an  invisible  hand  her  head  began  to 
bend  forward.  A  thin,  gray  shade,  as  of  inconceiv- 


30  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

ably  fine  ashes,  settled  upon  her  face,  and  her  nostrils 
quivered.  The  eyes,  with  the  light  fading  from  them, 
fixed  themselves  on  Peter  in  a  last  look. 

"  ' — of  the  shadow  of  death,  I  will  fear  no  evil; 
for  thou  art  with  me ;  thy  rod  and  thy  staff  they  com- 
fort me. '  ' '  Peter  finished  it  for  her,  his  boyish  voice 
a  cry  of  agony. 

A  light,  puffing  breath,  as  of  a  candle  blown  out, 
exhaled  from  his  mother's  lips.  Her  eyes  closed,  the 
hand  in  Peter's  fell  limp  and  slack.  The  awful  and 
mysterious  smile  of  death  fixed  itself  upon  her  pale 
mouth. 

So  passed  Maria  Champneys  from  her  tiny  house 
in  Riverton,  in  the  dawn  of  a  winter  morning,  when 
the  tide  was  turning  and  the  world  was  full  of  the 
sound  of  water  running  seaward. 


CHAPTER  III 

AT  GRIPS  WITH   LIFE 

THE  best  or  the  worst  thing  that  can  happen  to 
a  boy  in  this  country  is  to  be  poor  in  it  for  a 
while,  to  be  picked  up  neck  and  crop  and 
flung  upon  his  own  resources;  not  always  to  remain 
poor,  of  course,  for  one  may  be  damned  quite  as  ef- 
fectually and  everlastingly  upon  the  cross  as  off  it ;  but 
to  be  poor  long  enough  to  acquire  a  sense  of  proportion 
by  coming  to  close  grips  with  life;  to  learn  what  things 
and  people  really  are,  the  good  and  the  bad  of  them 
together;  to  have  to  weigh  and  measure  cant  and 
sentimentality  and  Christian  charity — which  last  is  a 
fearsome  thing — in  the  balance  with  truth  and  com- 
mon sense  and  human  kindness.  It  is  an  experience 
that  makes  or  breaks. 

Peter  had  always  adored  his  mother y  but  it  wasn't 
until  now  that  he  realized  how  really  wonderful  she 
had  been.  How  she  had  kept  the  roof  over  his  head, 
and  his  stomach  somehow  satisfied,  and  had  sent  him 
to  church  and  to  school  decently  enough  clad,  Peter 
couldn't  imagine. 

There  was  no  possibility  now  of  regular  schooling. 
Nature  has  n't  provided  as  providently  for  the  human 
grub  as  for  the  insect  one.    A  human  grub  is  n't  born 
31 


32  THE  PUEPLE  HEIGHTS 

upon  a  food-plant  that  is  a  house  as  well,  nor  is  na- 
ture his  tailor  and  his  shoemaker.  Peter  wasn't 
blood  kin  to  anybody  in  Riverton,  so  there  was 
no  home  open  to  him.  He  was  deeply  sensible  of  the 
genuine  kindness  extended  to  him  in  his  dark  hour, 
but  he  would  n't,  he  could  n't,  have  gone  permanently 
into  any  of  their  homes  had  he  been  asked  to  do  so, 
which  of  course  he  wasn't.  He  clung  to  the  little 
house  on  the  big  cove.  His  mother's  presence  lingered 
there  and  hallowed  the  place. 

There  was  some  talk  of  sending  him  to  an  orphan- 
age— he  was  barely  twelve,  and  penniless.  But  when 
Mrs.  Cooke,  the  minister's  wife,  mentioned  it  to  Peter, 
gently  enough,  the  boy  turned  upon  her  with  flaming 
eyes,  and  said  he  wouldn't  stay  in  any  asylum;  he  'd 
run  away,  and  keep  on  running  away  until  he  died! 
Mrs.  Cooke  looked  troubled,  and  said  that  Mr.  Mc- 
Masters,  a  vestryman  in  the  church,  was  really  the 
head  and  front  of  that  project. 

Peter  went  after  Mr.  McMasters,  and  found  him  in 
his  grocery  store — one  of  those  long,  dim  country 
stores  that  sell  everything  from  cradles  to  coffins. 
Mr.  McMasters  came  from  behind  the  counter,  rub- 
bing his  hands. 

"Well,  Peter,  what  can  I  do  for  you  this  mawnin'?" 
he  asked,  jovially.  He  was  that  sort. 

"You  can  let  me  alone,  please,"  said  Peter,  suc- 
cinctly. 

"Eh?  "What  's  that?"  The  large  man  stared  at 
the  little  man. 

"I  said  you  can  let  me  alone,  please,"  said  Peter, 


AT  GRIPS  WITH  LIFE  33 

patiently.  "I  hear  it  's  you  doing  most  of  the  talk- 
ing about  sending  me  to  an  orphanage." 

"I  try  to  do  my  duty  as  a  man  and  a  Christian," 
said  the  vestryman,  piously.  "You  can't  be  allowed 
to  run  loose,  Peter.  'T  aint  right.  'T  ain't  moral. 
'T  ain't  Christian.  You'll  be  better  off  in  a  good 
orphan-asylum,  bein'  taught  what  you  'd  ought  to 
learn.  That  's  the  place  for  you,  Peter ! ' ' 

"I  want  to  stay  in  my  own  house,"  said  Peter. 

"Shucks!  You  can't  eat  and  wear  a  measly  little 
house,  can  you?  That  's  what  I  'm  askin'  the  town 
right  now.  Sure  you  can 't !  The  thing  to  do  is  to 
sell  that  place  for  what  it  '11  fetch,  sock  the  money  in 
bank  for  you,  and  it  '11  be  there — with  interest — when 
you  've  grown  up  and  aim  to  start  in  business  for 
yourself.  Yes,  sir.  That's  my  idea." 

"Mr.  McMasters,"  said  Peter,  evenly,  "I  want  you 
to  know  one  thing  sure  and  certain.  If  you  send 
me  to  any  orphan-asylum,  I  '11  send  you  to  some  place 
where  you  '11  be  better  off,  too,  sir." 

"Meanin'?" 

Peter  Champneys  shot  at  the  stout  vestryman  a 
glance  like  the  thrust  of  a  golden  spear. 

"The  cemetery,  Mr.  McMasters,"  said  he,  with  the 
deadly  South  Carolina  gentleness. 

The  two  stared  at  each  other.  It  was  n't  the  boy's 
glance  that  fell  first. 

"Threatenin'  me,  hey?  Threatenin'  a  father  of  a 
family,  are  you?"  Mr.  McMasters  licked  his  lips. 

"Oh,  no,  Mr.  McMasters,  I  'm  not  threatening  you, 
at  all.  I  'm  just  telling  you  what  '11  happen." 


34  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

The  vestryman  reflected.  He  knew  the  Champ- 
neyses.  They  had  all  been  men  of  their  word.  And 
fine  marksmanship  ran  in  the  family.  He  had  seen 
this  same  Peter  handle  a  shot-gun:  you  'd  think  the 
little  devil  had  been  born  with  a  gun  in  his  fist !  He 
had  a  thumb-nail  vision  of  Mrs.  McMasters  collecting 
his  life-insurance — getting  new  clothes,  and  the  piano 
she 'had  been  plaguing  him  for,  too,  and  her  mother 
always  in  the  house  with  her.  He  turned  purple. 

"You — why,  you  beggarly  whelp!  You — you 
damned  Champneys!"  he  roared.  Peter  met  the 
angry  eyes  unflinchingly. 

"I  reckon  you  'd  better  understand  I  'm  not  going 
to  any  orphan-asylum,  Mr.  McMasters.  I  'm  going 
to  stay  right  here  at  home.  And  you  are  not  going 
to  get  my  cove  lot,"  he  added  shrewdly. 

"What  do  I  care  where  you  go?  And  who  wants 
your  old  strip  of  sand  and  cockspurs?  Get  to  hell 
out  o'  here!"  yelled  Mr.  McMasters,  violently. 

Peter  marched  out.  He  knew  that  victory  perched 
upon  his  banners.  He  wouldn't  be  sent  away,  willy- 
nilly,  to  a  place  the  bare  thought  of  which  had  made 
his  mother  turn  pale.  And  she  had  wished  him  to 
keep  the  place  on  the  cove,  the  last  poor  remnant  of 
Champneys  land.  To  this  end  had  she  pinched  and 
slaved.  When  Peter  thought  of  McMasters  intriguing 
to  take  from  him  even  this  poor  possession,  his  lips 
came  together  firmly.  Somehow  he  would  manage  to 
keep  the  place.  If  his  mother  had  been  able  to  man- 
age it,  surely  a  man  could  do  so,  too !  He  had  n't  the 
faintest  doubt  of  his  ability  to  take  care  of  himself. 


AT  GRIPS  WITH  LIFE  35 

But  the  town  was  troubled  and  perplexed,  until 
Peter  solved  his  problem  for  himself  with  the  aid  of 
Emma  Campbell.  Emma  had  always  been  his  friend, 
and  she  had  been  his  mother's  loyal  and  loving  serv- 
itor. She  and  Peter  had  several  long  talks;  then 
Emma  called  in  Cassius,  an  ex-husband  of  hers  who 
so  long  as  he  didn't  live  with  her  could  get  along 
with  her,  and  had  him  widen  the  shed  room,  Peter  tak- 
ing in  its  stead  his  mother's  bedroom.  Cassius  built 
a  better  wash-bench,  with  a  shelter,  under  the  china- 
berry  trees  in  the  yard,  and  strung  some  extra  clothes- 
lines, and  Emma  Campbell  moved  in.  Emma  would 
take  care  of  the  house,  and  look  after  Peter.  River- 
ton  sighed,  and  shrugged  its  shoulders. 

It  was  a  sketchy  sort  of  arrangement,  but  it  worked 
very  well.  Sometimes  Peter  provided  the  meals  which 
Emma  cooked,  for  he  was  expert  at  snaring,  crabbing, 
shrimping,  and  fishing.  Sometimes  the  spirit  moved 
Cassius  to  lay  an  offering  of  a  side  of  bacon,  a  bushel 
of  potatoes,  a  string  of  fish,  or  maybe  a  jug  of  syrup 
or  a  hen  at  his  ex-spouse's  feet.  Cassius  said  Emma 
was  so  contrary  he  specked  she  must  be  'flicted  wid 
de  moonness,  which  is  one  way  of  saying  that  one  is 
a  bit  weak  in  the  head.  But  he  liked  her,  and  she 
washed  his  shirts  and  sewed  on  a  button  or  so  for 
him  occasionally,  or  occasionally  cracked  him  over 
the  sconce  with  the  hominy-spoon,  just  to  show  that 
she  considered  her  marital  ties  binding.  Emma  had 
been  married  twice  since  Cassius  left  her,  but  both 
these  ventures  had  been,  in  her  own  words,  "triflin' 
niggers  any  real  lady  'd  jes'  natchelly  hab  to  throw 


36  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

out."  When  Cassius  complained  that  his  third  wife 
was  "diggin'  roots"  against  him,  Emma  immediately 
set  him  to  digging  potatoes  for  herself,  to  offset  the 
ill  effects  of  possible  conjure.  She  was  a  strategical 
person,  and  Peter  did  n't  fare  very  badly,  considering. 

The  boy  fell  heir  to  all  those  odd  jobs  that  boys 
in  his  position  are  expected  to  tackle.  When  a  task 
was  too  tiresome,  too  disagreeable,  or  too  ill-paying 
for  anybody  else,  Peter  was  sent  for  and  graciously 
allowed  to  do  it.  It  enabled  people  to  feel  charitable 
and  at  the  same  time  get  something  done  for  about  a 
fourth  of  what  a  man  would  have  charged.  Half  the 
time  he  made  his  living  out  of  the  river,  going  part- 
ners with  some  negro  boatman.  They  are  daring 
watermen,  the  coast  negroes.  They  took  Peter  on 
deep-sea  fishing-trips,  and  at  night  he  curled  up  on 
a  furled  sail  and  went  to  sleep  to  the  sound  of  Atlan- 
tic waves,  and  of  negro  men  singing  as  only  negro 
men  can  sing.  Sometimes  they  went  seining  at  night 
in  the  river,  and  Peter  never  forgot  the  flaring 
torches,  the  lights  dipping  and  glinting  and  sliding 
off  brawny,  half -naked  figures  and  black  faces,  while 
the  marshes  were  a  black,  long  line  against  the  sky, 
and  the  moon  made  a  silver  track  upon  the  waters, 
and  the  salty  smell  of  the  sea  filled  one's  nostrils. 

Now  that  he  could  no  longer  attend  school,  Peter 
snatched  at  any  book  that  came  his  way,  getting  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  reading-matter  from  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  people.  His  was  the  unappeasable 
hunger  and  thirst  of  those  who  long  to  know ;  and  he 
wished  to  express  what  he  learned,  by  making  pictures 


AT  GRIPS  WITH  LIFE  37 

and  thus  interpreting  it  for  himself  and  others.  It 
was  n't  easy.  Life  turned  a  rather  harsh  face  to  him. 
He  wasn't  clothed  like  the  birds  of  the  air  and  the 
lilies  of  the  field :  he  had  to  provide  his  own  coverings 
as  best  he  might.  He  wouldn't  accept  charity.  He 
would  wear  his  own  old  clothes  but  he  wouldn't 
wear  anybody  else's. 

"Peter,"  said  Emma  Campbell,  anxiously,  "yo* 
rind  is  comin'  out  o'  doors.  Dem  britches  o'  yourn 
looks  like  peep-thoo-de-winduh ;  daylight  's  comin'." 
She  added  anxiously:  "Don't  you  let  a  heavy  rain 
ketch  you  in  dem  pants,  Peter,  or  it  '11  baptize  you 
plum  nekked  to  yo'  shirt-tail." 

Peter  looked  alarmed.  One  may  with  decency  run 
barefooted  only  to  the  knees.  Upon  reflection,  he  sold 
his  mother's  sewing-machine — it  was  an  old  machine 
and  didn't  bring  much — and  bought  enough  to  cover 
himself  with. 

"I  wish  I  'd  been  born  with  my  clothes  on  me,  like 
you  were,"  he  confided  to  the  Red  Admiral.  "Gee, 
you  're  lucky!" 

The  Red  Admiral  flirted  his  fine  coat  vaingloriously. 
He  didn't  have  to  worry  about  trousers,  nor  yet  shoes 
for  his  six  feet!  And  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  fly 
around  a  bit  and  he  was  sure  to  find  his  dinner  wait- 
ing for  him. 

"Fairy,"  said  Peter,  soberly,  "I  'm  not  sniffling, 
but  I  'm  not  having  what  you  'd  call  a  good  time. 
It  's  hard  to  be  me,  butterfly.  Nothing  nice  has  hap- 
pened in  such  a  long  time.  I  wish  you  'd  think  up 
something  pleasant  and  wish  it  to  happen  to  me." 


38  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

If  you  '11  hold  out  your  first  and  second  fingers  and 
wiggle  them  in  the  friendliest  way  you  know  how, 
you  '11  see  how  the  Red  Admiral  moved  his  feelers 
just  then. 

"When  Peter  Champneys  went  home  that  night,  after 
a  long  afternoon  of  weeding  an  old  lady's  garden  and 
whitewashing  a  long-suffering  chicken-house,  Emma 
Campbell  spread  before  him,  on  a  hot  platter,  and  of 
a  crispness  and  brownness  and  odorousness  to  have 
made  St.  Simon  Stylites  slide  down  his  pillar  and 
grab  for  a  piece  of  it,  a  fat  chicken  with  an  accom- 
paniment of  hot  biscuit  and  good  brown  gravy.  She 
didn't  tell  Peter  how  she  had  come  by  the  chicken, 
nor  did  he  wait  to  ask.  He  crammed  his  mouth,  and 
Emma  leaned  against  the  door  and  watched  him  with 
profound  satisfaction.  When  he  had  polished  the 
last  bone  to  an  ivory  whiteness,  Emma  reached  be- 
hind her  and  handed  Peter  the  book  she  had  that 
morning  wrested  from  a  peddler  whose  shirt  she  had 
washed  and  ironed.  Emma  knew  Peter  liked  books. 

Now,  Emma  Campbell  couldn't  by  any  stretch  of 
imagination  be  considered  a  beautiful  person.  She 
had  pulled  almost  all  of  her  hair  out  by  the  roots, 
from  a  fashion  she  had  of  twisting  and  winding  it 
tightly  around  a  tin  spoon,  or  a  match  stem,  to  "pull 
her  palate  up."  The  colored  people  suffer  from  a 
mysterious  ailment  known  as  "having  your  palate 
down,"  for  which  the  one  specific  is  to  take  a  wisp 
of  your  hair  and  wrap  it  as  tightly  around  a  tin 
spoon,  or  a  match  stem,  as  you  can  twist  it;  that 
pulls  your  palate  up.  It  is,  of  course,  absolutely 


AT  GRIPS  WITH  LIFE  39 

necessary  for  you  to  have  your  palate  up,  even  though 
you  scalp  yourself  in  the  process  of  making  it  stay 
up.  Emma  generally  had  a  couple  of  spoons  and  two 
or  three  matches  in  what  was  left  of  her  wool.  She 
could  screw  her  mouth  up  until  it  looked  like  a  noz- 
zle, and  she  could  shoot  her  eyes  out  like  a  crab's. 
She  was  so  big  that  most  folks  were  afraid  of  her. 
But  as  she  stood  there  beaming  at  Peter  with  the 
book  in  his  hand,  the  loveliest  lady  in  the  land 
couldn't  have  looked  better  or  kinder. 

Peter  laid  the  Collection  of  Poetic  Gems  on  the 
table,  and  blinked  at  Emma  Campbell.  Then,  be- 
cause he  was  only  a  boy,  and  because  nothing  so  pleas- 
ant as  this  had  happened  to  him  for  a  long,  long 
time — not  since  his  mother  died — he  put  his  head 
down  on  the  green-covered  book  and  cried  as  only  a 
boy  can  cry  when  he  lets  go. 

Emma  Campbell  seemed  to  grow  about  nine  feet 
tall.  "Peter,"  said  she,  in  a  terrifying  voice,  "I 
axes  you  not  to  lemme  see  you  cry  in'  like  dat !  When 
I  sees  Miss  Maria's  chile  cryin',  jes'  'cause  a  ole 
nigger  woman  gives  'im  a  book,  I  wants  to  go  out  an' 
bust  dis  town  wide  open  wid  a  ax !" 

When  he  had  time  to  examine  his  Collection  of 
Poetic  Gems,  Peter  was  overjoyed.  The  paper  was 
poor,  the  cuts  atrocious,  the  binding  a  poisonous 
green,  but  many  of  the  Gems  were  of  purest  ray 
serene  despite  their  wretched  setting.  Old-fashioned 
stuff,  most  of  it,  but  woven  on  the  loom  of  immortal- 
ity. Peter,  of  course,  had  Simms's  "War  Poems  of 
the  South."  He  knew  much  of  Father  Ryan  by 


40  THE  PUEPLE  HEIGHTS 

heart.  He,  as  well  as  another,  could  wave  his  brown 
stick  of  an  arm  and  bid  somebody  '  *  Take  that  banner 
down,  'tis  tattered."  He  had  been  brought  up  on 
the  story  of  the  glory  of  the  men  who  wore  the  gray, 
and  for  him  the  sword  of  Robert  Lee  would  never  dim 
nor  tarnish.  But  these  things  were  different.  They 
talked  to  something  deep  down  in  him,  that  was 
neither  Yankee  nor  Southerner,  but  larger  and  better 
than  both.  When  Peter  read  these  poems  he  felt  the 
hair  of  his  scalp  prickle,  and  his  heart  almost  burst 
with  a  rapture  that  was  agony. 

But  one  can't  exist  on  a  collection  of  gems  in  a  vile 
binding.  Shirts  and  shoes  wear  out,  and  trousers 
must  be  replaced  when  they  're  too  far  gone  to  stand 
another  stitch.  Peter  was  too  small  to  do  any  re- 
sponsible work,  and  he  was  getting  too  big  to  be  paid 
in  pennies  and  dimes.  People  didn't  exactly  know 
what  to  do  with  him.  One  can't  be  supercilious  to  a 
boy  who  is  a  Champneys  born,  but  can  one  invite  a 
boy  who  runs  errands,  is  on  very  familiar  footing 
with  all  the  colored  people  in  the  county,  and  wears 
such  clothes  as  Peter  wore,  to  one's  house,  or  to  be 
one  of  the  guests  when  a  child  of  the  family  gives  a 
birthday  party?  Not  even  in  South  Carolina! 

For  instance,  when  Mrs.  Humphreys  gave  a  birth- 
day party  for  her  little  girl,  she  was  troubled  about 
Peter  Champneys,  who  hadn't  been  invited.  Peter 
had  weeded  her  garden  the  day  before,  and  mowed 
her  lawn;  and  he  had  looked  such  a  little  fellow,  run- 
ning that  lawn-mower  out  there  in  the  sun!  And 
now,  while  all  the  other  children  were  playing  and 


AT  GRIPS  WITH  LIFE  41 

laughing,  dressed  in  their  party  finery,  Peter  was 
splitting  wood  for  old  Miss  Carmthers,  a  little  farther 
down  the  street.  Mrs.  Humphreys  could  see  him 
from  her  bedroom  window.  It  was  a  little  too  much 
for  the  good-hearted  woman,  who  had  liked  his 
mother.  She  compromised  with  herself  by  taking  a 
plate  if  ice-cream  and  a  thick  slice  of  cake,  slipping 
out  of  her  back  door,  and  hurrying  down  to  Miss 
Carruthers's  back  yard. 

Peter  stood  there,  leaning  on  his  ax.  Seated  on  a 
larger  woodpile  was  old  Daddy  Christmas,  one  of  the 
town  beggars.  Daddy  Christmas  was  incredibly  old, 
wrinkled,  ragged,  and  bent.  His  grizzled,  partly  bald 
head  nodded  while  he  tried  to  talk  to  Peter. 

"Peter,"  said  Mrs.  Humphreys,  hastily,  "here  's 
some  ice-cream  and  cake  for  you."  She  blushed  as 
she  spoke.  "It  's  a  hot  day — and  you  're  working. 
I  thought  you  'd  like  something  cool  and  nice."  She 
thrust  the  plate  upon  him. 

Peter  smiled  at  her  charmingly. 

"You  're  mighty  kind,  Mis'  Humphreys,"  he  told 
her. 

"I  '11  come  back  for  the  plate  and  spoon,  after  a 
while,"  she  said,  hurrying  off.  But  at  the  gate,  be- 
side the  thick  crape-myrtle  bushes,  she  paused  and 
looked  back.  Somehow  she  wanted  to  see  Maria 
Champneys's  boy  eating  that  ice-cream  and  cake. 

"Daddy  Christmas,"  said  a  voice,  gaily,  "if 
there  'd  been  two  plates  and  two  spoons,  and  if 
you  'd  had  any  sort  of  a  dinner  to-day,  I  'd  be  per- 
fectly willing  to  share  this  treat  with  you.  As  it  is, 


42  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

you  '11  have  to  eat  it  all  by  yourself. ' '  A  second  later 
the  voice  added:  "Funny,  you  just  saying  the  Lord 
would  provide;  but  I  bet  you  did  n't  think  He  'd  pro- 
vide ice-cream  and  cake ! ' '  Followed  the  brisk  strokes 
of  the  ax,  swung  by  a  wiry,  nervous  little  arm. 

Mrs.   Humphreys  walked   down  the  lane  to  her 
house,  with  a  very  thoughtful  face. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  SOUL.  OF  BLACK  FOLKS 

THE  negro  to  the  white  man,  as  the  moon  to 
the  earth,  shows  one  side  only;  the  other  is 
dark  and  unknown.  It  is  an  instinct  with 
him  to  conceal  the  truth — any  truth — from  white 
men;  who  knows  to  what  use  they  will  put  it  and 
him?  So  deeply  have  ages  of  slavery  and  oppression 
ingrained  this  upon  black  men's  subconsciousness, 
that  only  one  white  man  in  a  thousand  ever  knows 
or  suspects  what  his  dark  brethren  think,  or  know,  or 
feel.  Peter  Champneys  happened  to  be  the  thou- 
sandth. 

There  wasn't  a  cabin  in  all  that  country-side  in 
which  this  barefooted  last  scion  of  a  long  line  of  slave- 
holding  gentry  was  n  't  known  and  welcome.  There 
wasn't  a  negro  in  the  county  he  didn't  know  by 
name:  even  "mean  niggers"  grinned  amiably  at  Peter 
Champneys.  They  remembered  what  he  had  once 
said  to  a  district  judge  whom  he  heard  bitterly  in- 
veighing against  their  ingratitude,  immorality,  shift- 
lessness,  and  general  worthlessness.  Peter  had  lifted 
his  quiet  eyes. 

"I  've  often  thought,  Judge,  what  a  particularly 
mean  nigger  I  'd  have  been,  myself,"  he  said,  and 

43 


44  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

studied  the  judge  with  disconcerting  directness.  "If 
you  'd  been  born  a  colored  man,  and  some  folks 
talked  and  behaved  to  you  like  some  folks  talk  and 
behave  to  colored  men,  don't  you  reckon  you  'd  be 
in  jail  right  this  minute,  Judge?" 

The  white  men  who  heard  Peter's  remark  smiled, 
and  one  of  them  said,  spitting  out  a  mouthful  of 
tobacco  juice,  that  it  was  just  another  piece  of  that 
boy's  damfoolishness.  But  the  negroes,  who  knew 
that  judge  as  only  negroes  can  know  white  men, 
chuckled  grimly.  They  have  an  immense  respect  for 
intelligence,  and  they  made  no  mistake  where  Peter's 
was  concerned. 

They  knew  him,  too,  a  mild-eyed,  brown-faced  child 
reading  out  of  a  Book  by  the  light  of  a  kerosene  lamp 
to  groups  of  gray-headed,  reverent  listeners  in  lonely 
cabins.  And  Peter  was  always  making  pictures  of 
them — Mindel  at  the  wash-tub,  Emma  Campbell  pick- 
ing a  chicken,  old  Maum'  Chloe  churning,  Liza  play- 
ing with  her  fat  black  baby,  Joe  Tuttle  plowing,  old 
Daddy  Neptune  Fennick  leaning  on  his  ax.  Some- 
times these  sketches  caught  some  fleeting  moment  of 
fun,  and  were  so  true  and  so  amusing  that  they  were 
received  with  shouts  of  delighted  laughter,  passed 
from  hand  to  hand,  and  cherished  by  fortunate  re- 
cipients. 

Now,  no  simple  and  natural  heart  can  even  for  a 
little  while  beat  in  unison  with  other  hearts,  encased 
in  whatsoever  colored  skin  may  please  God,  without 
a  quickening  of  that  wisdom  which  is  one  of  the  keys 
of  the  Kingdom  to  come.  To  be  able  really  to 


THE  SOUL  OF  BLACK  FOLKS     45 

know,  truly  to  understand  and  come  human-close  to 
the  lowly,  to  men  and  women  under  the  bondage  of 
age-old  prejudice,  or  outcast  by  the  color  of  their 
skin,  is  a  terrible  and  perilous  gift.  This  is  the 
much  knowledge  in  which  there  is  much  grief. 

Peter  Champneys  saw  both  sides.  He  saw  and 
heard  and  knew  things  that  would  have  made  his 
mother  turn  in  her  grave  had  she  known.  He  knew 
what  depths  of  savagery  and  superstition,  of  brute 
sloth  and  ignorance,  lay  here  to  drive  back  many  a 
would-be  white  helper  in  despair,  and  to  render  the 
labor  of  many  a  splendid  negro  reformer  all  but  futile. 
But  he  knew,  too,  the  terrible  patience,  the  incredible 
resignation,  with  which  poverty  and  neglect  and  hun- 
ger and  oppression  and  injustice  are  borne,  until  at 
times,  child  as  he  was,  his  soul  sickened  with  shame 
and  rage.  He  relished  the  sweet  earthy  humor  that 
brightens  humble  lives,  the  gaiety  and  charity  under 
conditions  which,  when  white  men  have  to  bear  them, 
go  to  the  making  of  red  terrorists.  Some  of  the  things 
he  saw  and  heard  remained  like  scars  upon  Peter's 
memory.  He  will  remember  until  he  dies  the  June 
night  he  spent  with  Daddy  Neptune  Fennick  in  his 
cabin  on  the  edge  of  the  Eiver  Swamp. 

That  early  June  day  had  been  cloudy  from  dawn; 
Peter  was  glad  of  that,  for  he  meant  to  pick  black- 
berries, and  a  sunless  day  for  berry-picking  is  an  un- 
mixed blessing.  The  little  negroes  are  such  nimble- 
fingered  pickers,  such  locust-like  strippers  of  all 
near-by  patches,  that  Peter  had  bad  luck  at  first,  and 
was  driven  farther  afield  than  he  usually  went;  his 


46  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

search  led  him  even  to  the  edge  of  the  River  Swamp, 
a  dismal  place  of  evil  repute,  wherein  cane  as  tall  as 
a  man  grew  thickly,  and  sluggish  streamlets  mean- 
dered in  and  out  of  gnarled  cypress  roots,  and  big 
water-snakes  stretched  themselves  on  branches  over- 
hanging the  water.  On  the  edges  of  the  swamp  the 
unmolested  vines  were  thick  with  fruit.  In  the  late 
afternoon  Peter  had  filled  his  buckets  to  overflowing 
with  extra-fine  berries. 

It  had  been  a  sultry  day  for  all  its  sunlessness,  and 
Peter  was  tired,  so  tired  that  his  head  and  back  ached. 
He  looked  at  the  heavy  buckets  doubtfully;  it  would 
be  a  man-size  job  to  trudge  the  long  sandy  road  home, 
so  laden.  While  he  sat  there,  hating  to  move,  Daddy 
Neptune  Fennick  came  in  sight,  hoe  and  rake  and  ax 
on  his  sturdy  shoulder.  The  old  man  cast  a  shrewd, 
weather-wise  eye  at  the  darkening  sky. 

"Gwine  to  hab  one  spell  o'  wedder,"  he  called. 
"Best  come  on  home  wid  me,  Peter,  en  wait  w'ile." 

Even  as  he  spoke  a  blaze  of  lightning  split  the  sky 
and  lighted  up  the  swamp.  A  loud  clap  of  thunder 
followed  on  the  heels  of  it.  Daddy  Neptune  seized 
one  bucket,  Peter  the  other,  and  both  ran  for  the 
shelter  of  the  cabin,  some  eighth  of  a  mile  farther 
on.  They  reached  it  just  as  the  rain  came  down  in 
swirling,  blinding  sheets. 

The  old  man  built  a  fire  in  his  mud  fireplace,  and 
prepared  the  evening  meal  of  broiled  bacon,  johnny- 
cake,  and  coffee.  He  and  his  welcome  guest  ate  from 
tin  plates  on  their  knees,  drinking  their  coffee  from 
tin  cups.  Between  mouthfuls  each  gave  the  other 


THE  SOUL  OF  BLACK  FOLKS     47 

what  county  news  he  possessed.  Peter  particularly 
liked  that  orderly  one-roomed  cabin,  and  the  fine  old 
man  who  was  his  host. 

He  was  an  old-timer,  was  Daddy  Neptune,  more 
than  six  feet  tall,  and  massively  proportioned.  His 
bald  head  was  fringed  with  a  ring  of  curling  gray 
wool,  and  a  white  beard  covered  the  lower  portion  of 
an  unusually  handsome  countenance.  He  had  a 
shrewd  and  homely  wit,  an  unbuyable  honesty,  and 
such  a  simple  and  unaffected  dignity  of  manner  and 
bearing  as  had  won  the  respect  of  the  county. 

The  old  man  lived  by  himself  in  the  cabin  by  the 
River  Swamp.  His  wife  and  son  had  long  been  dead, 
and  though  he  had  sheltered,  fed,  clothed,  and  taught 
to  work  several  negro  lads,  these  had  gone  their  way. 
Peter  was  particularly  attached  to  him,  and  the  old 
man  returned  his  affection  with  interest. 

The  dark  fell  rapidly.  You  could  hear  the  trees 
in  the  River  Swamp  crying  out  as  the  wind  tor- 
mented them.  On  a  night  like  this,  with  lightning 
snaking  through  it  and  wild  wind  trying  to  tear  the 
heart  out  of  its  thin  cypresses,  and  the  cane-brake 
rustling  ominously  in  its  unchancy  black  stretches, 
one  might  believe  that  the  place  was  haunted,  as  the 
negroes  said  it  was.  Daddy  Neptune  was  moved  to 
tell  Peter  some  of  his  own  experiences  with  the  River 
Swamp.  He  spoke,  between  puffs  of  his  corn-cob 
pipe,  of  the  night  Something  had  come  out  of  it — 
pitterpat!  pitterpat! — right  at  his  heels.  It  had  fol- 
lowed him  to  the  very  edge  of  his  home  clearing. 
Daddy  Neptune  wasn't  exactly  afraid,  but  he  knew 


48  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

that  Something  hadn't  any  business  to  be  pitterpat- 
tering  at  his  heels,  so  he  had  turned  around  and  said : 

"Ef  you-all  come  out  o'  hebben,  you  's  wastin' 
good  time  'yuh.  Ef  Dey-all  lef '  you  come  out  o'  hell, 
you  bes '  git  right  back  whah  you  b  'longs.  One  ways, 
I  ain't  got  nothin'  I  kin  tell  you;  t'other  ways,  you 
ain't  got  nothin'  I  's  gwine  to  let  you  tell  me.  I  's 
axin'  you  to  git.  En,"  finished  Neptune,  "dat  t'ing 
done  went  right  out — whish! — same  lak  I 's  tellin' 
you!  Yessuh!  hit  went  spang  out!"  He  threw 
another  chunk  of  fatwood  on  the  fire,  and  watched 
the  smoky  flame  go  dancing  up  the  chimney.  In  the 
red  glow  he  had  the  aspect  of  a  kindly  Titan. 

"It  never  bothered  you  again,  Daddy  Nep?" 
Peter  was  always  curious  about  these  experiences. 
He  had  a  glimmer  that  negroes  are  nearer  to  certain 
Powers  than  other  folks  are,  and  although  he  wasn't 
superstitious,  he  wasn't  skeptical,  either. 

"Never  bothered  me  a-tall,  less'n  dat  's  whut  's 
been  meddlin'  wid  my  fowls,  whichin  ef  I  catches  it,  I 
aims  to  blow  its  head  plum  off,  ghostes  or  no  ghostes," 
said  the  old  man,  stoutly. 

"Ghosts  don't  steal  chickens.  I  reckon  it  's  a  wild- 
cat gets  yours.  I  heard  one  scream  in  the  swamp  not 
so  long  since." 

"Well,  I  aims  to  git  Mistuh  "Wildcat,  den.  I  done 
got  me  a  couple  o'  guinea-fowls  for  watch,  en  dey  sho 
does  set  up  a  mighty  potrackin'  w'en  anything 
strange  comes  a-snoopin'  roun'  de  yahd." 

After  a  while  Daddy  Neptune  put  away  his  pipe 
and  took  down  from  a  shelf  his  big  battered  Bible, 


THE  SOUL  OF  BLACK  FOLKS     49 

and  Peter  read  the  Twenty-first  and  Twenty-second 
chapters  of  Revelation,  to  which  the  old  man  listened 
with  clasped  hands  and  an  uplifted  face,  his  lips  mov- 
ing soundlessly  as  he  repeated  to  himself  certain  of 
the  words: 

And  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes;  and 
there  shall  be  no  more  death,  neither  sorrow,  nor  crying, 
neither  shall  there  be  any  more  pain;  for  the  former  things 
are  passed  away.  .  .  .  He  that  overcometh  shall  inherit  all 
things;  and  I  will  be  his  God  and  he  shall  be  my  son  .  .  . 

"I  was  born  in  slaveryment,"  said  the  old  man, 
audibly. 

Peter  lay  on  his  straw  bed  before  the  fire,  sleepily 
watching  Neptune  finish  his  prayers.  He  still  had  a 
child's  faith,  but  he  was  beginning  to  wonder  how  a 
laboring  negro  could  retain  it.  One  thing  he  was 
sure  of ;  if  there  was  such  a  thing  as  a  Christian  man, 
endowed  with  ideal  Christian  virtues,  that  old  man 
kneeling  in  his  cabin,  pouring  out  his  heart  to  his 
Maker,  was  a  Christian.  And  remembering  comfort- 
able, complacent  white  Christians — well  fed,  well 
housed,  well  clothed;  with  education  and  all  that  it 
implies  as  their  heritage;  with  all  the  high  things  of 
the  world  open  to  them  by  reason  of  their  white  skin ; 
praying  decorously  every  Sunday  to  a  white  man's 
God — Peter  felt  confused.  How  should  the  white 
man  and  the  white  man's  God  answer  and  account  to 
the  Daddy  Neptunes,  who  had  been  "born  in  slavery- 
ment," had  lived  and  would  die  in  slaveryment  to 
poverty  and  prejudice?  Where  do  they  come  in, 


50  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

these  dispossessed  dark  sons  of  the  Father?  Surely, 
the  Father  has  a  very  great  deal  to  make  up  to  them ! 
— Then  the  firelighted  cabin  walls,  the  wavering  figure 
of  the  kneeling  old  man,  the  soft  sound  of  light  rain 
on  the  roof,  faded  and  went  out.  Peter  fell  asleep. 

He  slept  a  tired  boy's  dreamless  slumber.  The 
night  deepened.  The  rain  ceased,  and  a  wan  and 
sad  moon  climbed  the  sky,  wearily,  like  a  tired  old 
woman.  In  the  River  Swamp  frogs  croaked,  a  whip- 
poorwill  at  intervals  gave  its  lonesome  and  lovely  call, 
the  shivering-owl's  cry  making  it  lovelier  by  compari- 
son. The  cypresses  shook  blackly  in  the  blacker 
swamp  water  which  licked  their  roots.  From  the 
drenched  vegetation  arose  a  fresh  and  penetrating 
odor,  the  smell  of  the  clean  June  night.  And  pres- 
ently, he  didn't  know  why,  Peter  awoke  with  every 
sense  instantly  alert.  It  was  as  if  his  soul  had  sensed 
a  sound,  knew  it  for  what  it  was,  and  was  on  guard. 

A  few  red  embers  glowed  in  the  big  mud  chimney. 
Save  for  these,  the  one-room  cabin  was  in  darkness. 
Somebody  was  moving  about.  Peter  made  out  the 
figure  of  big  Neptune  standing  with  his  head  bent  in 
a  listening  attitude  at  one  of  the  shuttered  windows. 
A  bit  of  fatwood  in  the  fireplace  burst  for  a  moment 
into  an  expiring  flame,  which  flickered  dully  on  the 
barrel  of  the  gun  in  the  negro's  hands.  Peter  scram- 
bled up,  and  stole  noiselessly  across  the  floor. 

"Dem  guineas  potracked  en  waked  me  up,  Son," 
whispered  Neptune.  "Now  I  aims  to  git  whut  's  been 
sneakin'  off  wid  my  fowls." 


THE  SOUL  OF  BLACK  FOLKS     51 

At  that  moment  a  low  knock  sounded  on  the  door. 
At  such  an  hour,  and  in  that  lonely  place,  it  gave  the 
old  man  and  the  boy  a  distinct  sensation  of  fear: 
who  should  come  knocking  so  stealthily  at  the  door 
of  the  cabin  by  the  River  Swamp  at  that  eerie  hour? 
Neptune,  his  gun  gripped  in  his  hands,  twisted  his 
head  sidewise,  listening.  The  knock  came  again,  this 
time  more  insistent.  Then  a  thick  voice  spoke,  muf- 
fled by  the  intervening  door: 

"Daddy  Nepshun,  is  you  awake?  For  Gawd 
A 'mighty 's  sake,  Daddy  Nepshun,  lemme  in!" 

The  old  man  stepped  to  the  door  and  flung  it  wide. 
The  figure  that  had  been  crouching  against  it  tumbled 
in  and  lay  panting  on  the  floor. 

"Light  me  dat  lamp,  please,  Peter,"  said  Neptune, 
peering  down  at  his  visitor. 

Peter,  who  had  recovered  from  his  momentary  fear, 
lighted  the  kerosene  lamp.  By  its  light  they  per- 
ceived a  stained,  muddy,  disheveled  wretch,  in  the 
last  state  of  terror  and  exhaustion.  Two  wild  eyes 
glared  at  them  out  of  a  gray,  grimed  face. 

"Why,  Jake !  Lawd  'a'  mussy,  hit  's  Jake !"  burst 
from  Daddy  Neptune.  Peter  recognized  in  the  in- 
truder a  negro  to  whom  the  old  man  had  been,  as 
was  his  wont,  fatherly  kind.  On  a  time  he  and  his 
wife  had  sheltered  and  fed  Jake. 

Peter  did  n't  know  why,  but  something  in  the  man's 
aspect,  in  his  rolling  eyes,  his  lips  drawn  back  from 
his  teeth,  his  torn  clothes,  his  desperate  look  of  a 
hunted  beast,  made  him  recoil.  He  had  never  before 


52  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

seen  any  one  with  just  that  look  of  brute  cunning 
and  terror.  Daddy  Neptune's  steady  eyes  took  in 
every  detail.  He  stiffened  in  his  tracks. 

"Whut  you  been  doin'?"  he  demanded.  Jake 
turned  his  head  from  side  to  side ;  he  refused  to  meet 
the  direct  old  eyes.  He  mumbled: 

"Is  you  got  any  w'isky,  Da'  Nepshun?  For 
Gawd's  sake,  Da'  Nepshun,  gimme  a  drink  en  don't 
ast  me  no  questions  twell  I  's  able  to  answer." 
His  voice  was  hoarse  and  shaking;  his  whole  body 
shook. 

"I  ain't  got  no  w'isky,  but  I  got  coffee  en  bittles. 
Whichin  you  is  welcome  to,"  said  Neptune.  "You 
ain't  say  yit  whut  you  been  doin'.  Whut  you  been 
up  to,  Jake?" 

Jake  writhed  off  the  floor.  Again  Peter  recoiled 
instinctively.  As  the  negro  got  upon  his  feet  his  coat 
fell  open,  and  the  torn  sleeve  and  cuff  of  a  gingham 
shirt  showed.  On  it  was  a  dark  stain  which  was  not 
swamp  water  or  mud.  Peter's  eyes  fastened  upon 
that  dark  red  smear. 

"Gimme  a  bite  o'  bittles  so  's  I  kin  git  on,"  im- 
plored Jake. 

"I  axes  you  once  mo',  Jake:  whut  you  been  doin'?" 
demanded  Neptune.  His  voice  was  stern,  and  his 
face  began  to  set. 

"En  I  axes  you  to  lemme  git  dem  bittles  fust,  en 
I  '11  tell  you,  soon  's  I  gits  back  mah  wind,"  returned 
Jake,  sullenly. 

Still  retaining  his  gun,  Neptune  went  to  the  corner 
cupboard,  from  which  he  took  a  loaf  of  bread.  With- 


THE  SOUL  OF  BLACK  FOLKS     53 

out  cutting  it  he  handed  it  to  Jake,  who  began  to  tear 
it  with  his  teeth.  All  the  while  he  ate,  he  kept  turn- 
ing his  head,  listening,  listening. 

"Cain't  wait  for  no  coffee.  Gimme  drink  o'  water, 
please,  suh."  In  silence  Neptune  handed  him  a  gourd 
of  water.  When  Jake  had  gulped  this  down,  Neptune 
asked  again,  inexorably: 

"Whut  you  been  doin',  Jake?" 

Jake  shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other.  He  thrust 
his  bullet  head  forward.  His  hands,  hanging  at  his 
sides,  opened  and  closed,  the  fingers  twitching. 

"Dem  w'ite  mens  is  atter — somebuddy — en  dey  say 
hit  's  me,"  he  muttered  hoarsely.  His  eyes  rolled 
toward  the  door,  which,  not  having  been  barred  after 
his  entrance,  swung  slightly  ajar. 

"Whut  dey  atter  somebuddy  for?"  Neptune  de- 
manded. Outside,  in  the  wet  night,  the  screech-owl 
cried.  The  sweet  wind  danced  on  airy  feet  in  and 
out  of  the  cypresses  and  the  gums,  kissed  them,  stole 
their  breath,  and  tossed  it  abroad  odorously.  Stars 
had  come  out  to  keep  the  pale  moon  company,  and  a 
faint  light  glinted  on  wet  grass  and  bushes.  Crickets 
and  katydids  and  little  green  tree-frogs  kept  up  a 
harsh  concert.  And  then,  above  all  the  minor,  mur- 
muring noises  of  the  night  arose  another  sound,  very 
faint  and  far  off,  but  unmistakable  and  unforget- 
able — the  deep,  long,  bell  note  of  a  hound  upon  the 
trail. 

The  three  in  the  cabin  stood  like  figures  turned  to 
stone  in  the  attitude  of  listening.  Jake's  teeth  chat- 
tered audibly.  He  edged  toward  the  open  door,  but 


54  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

Neptune  stepped  in  front  of  him,  and  flung  up  an 
arresting  hand. 

"Whut  for?"    His  voice  was  like  a  whip-lash. 

"Somebuddy — done  meddled  wid  a  w'ite  gal — een 
de  cawn-field.  En  dey  'low — hit  wuz  me." 

A  gasp,  as  if  his  heart  had  been  squeezed,  came 
from  Neptune.  Of  a  sudden  he  seemed  to  grow  in 
height,  to  tower  unhumanly  tall  above  the  cringing 
wretch  he  confronted.  His  eyes  narrowed  into  red 
points  that  bored  into  the  other's  eyes,  and  plunged 
like  daggers  into  his  heart  and  mind.  Before  that 
glance,  like  a  vivisectionist 's  knife,  Jake  wilted;  he 
seemed  to  shrink,  dwindle,  collapse.  And  with  a 
growing,  cold,  awful  horror,  a  suspicion  so  hideous 
that  his  mind  revolted  from  it,  Peter  Champneys 
stood  staring  from  one  black  face  to  the  other. 

"You — you — "  Neptune  gulped,  strangling.  A 
long,  slow  shudder,  as  of  one  confronting  unheard-of 
torture,  went  over  his  big  frame.  The  fringe  of  hair 
on  his  bald  head  rose,  his  beard  bristled.  Sparks 
seemed  to  shoot  from  his  eyes,  burning  with  a  ter- 
rible flame. 

"Da'  Nepshun — "  Jake  put  out  clawing,  twitch- 
ing hands.  "Dey  's — dey  's — gwine  to  git  me." 
His  voice  broke  into  a  half-scream. 

"Whut  you  do  hit  for?"  This  from  Neptune,  in 
a  heart-shaken,  anguished,  rattling  whisper.  He 
asked  no  further  questions.  He  had  no  doubt. 
Jake's  rolling  eyes  had  told  him  the  unspeakable 
truth. 

"I  'clah  to  Gawd,  Da'  Nepshun,  I  wuz  n't  meanin' 


THE  SOUL  OF  BLACK  FOLKS     55 

no  hahm — I  never  had  no  idea —  She  came  down  de 
cawn-field  paff — wid  de  cow  folio  win'  'er — en — en — 
I  don't  know  whut  mek  me  meddle  wid  dat  gal. 
Seems  lak  hit  wuz  de  debbil,  'stead  o'  me." 

"Is  de  gal  done  daid?" 

"Yas,  suh,  she  done  daid."  Jake  rocked  himself 
to  and  fro,  muttering  her  name. 

Peter  Champneys  looked  at  the  torn  shirt-sleeve 
with  the  red  stain  upon  it.  The  room  shook  and 
wavered,  wind  was  in  his  ears.  And  the  red  of  that 
girl's  blood  got  into  his  eyes,  and  he  saw  things 
through  a  scarlet  mist.  The  most  horrible  rage  he 
had  ever  experienced  shook  him  like  a  mortal  sick- 
ness. Oh,  God!  oh,  God!  oh,  God!  That  girl! 

In  the  momentary  silence  that  fell  upon  that 
tragic  room,  a  sound  shivered.  Long,  slow,  bell-like. 
Nearer.  It  galvanized  Jake  into  terror-stricken  ac- 
tion. He  started  for  the  door. 

"Dey  '11  git  me,  dey  '11  git  me!"  he  croaked. 

Peter  would  have  flung  himself  upon  the  wretch,  to 
reach  for  his  throat  with  bare  hands;  but  something 
in  Neptune's  face  stopped  him.  Neptune's  bigness 
seemed  to  fill  the  whole  room.  He  drew  a  deep 
breath,  and  with  one  movement  jerked  the  door  wide. 

"Run  down  de  paff  by  de  fowl-house,"  he  said 
sharply.  "Den — hit  's  de  swamp  for  you." 

Peter  turned  sick.  Was  Neptune  like  all  other — 
niggers?  Hadn't  he  the — proper  sense  of  what  this 
devil  had  done? 

Jake  leaped  for  the  door,  cleared  the  steps  at  a 
bound,  and  was  flying  down  the  path.  Neptune  took 


56  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

one  forward  step,  filling  the  doorway.  He  lifted  the 
shot-gun  to  his  shoulder.  Just  as  the  fugitive  neared 
the  fowl-house,  the  gun  spoke.  The  flying  figure 
leaped  high  in  the  air,  and  then  sprawled  out  and 
was  suddenly  still  and  inert.  The  guinea-hens  set 
up  a  deafening  potracking,  and  the  cooped  fowls 
squawked  and  flapped.  Above  all  the  noise  they 
made  rose  the  bloodhound's  note. 

It  was  done  so  quickly,  it  was  so  inevitable,  that 
Peter  could  only  stand  and  blink.  He  thought, 
sickly,  that  the  very  earth  should  shudder  away  from 
the  soiling  touch  of  that  appalling  carrion.  But  the 
earth  was  the  one  thing  that  would  receive  Jake  un- 
protestingly.  He  lay  on  his  face,  his  arms  outflung, 
and  from  the  gaping  hole  between  his  shoulders  a 
dark  stream  welled.  The  indifferent  earth,  the  un- 
caring grass,  received  it.  The  wind  came  out  of  the 
swamp  on  mincing  feet  and  danced  over  him,  and 
fluttered  his  torn  shirt-sleeve. 

Stonily,  voicelessly,  Neptune  stood  in  the  cabin 
door,  staring  at  that  which  lay  in  the  pathway.  Then 
he  lowered  the  smoking  gun,  and  leaned  on  it.  His 
bald  head  drooped  until  his  gray  beard  swept  his 
breast,  and  his  throat  rattled  like  a  dying  man's. 
Shudders  went  over  him.  And  stonily  young  Peter 
Champneys  stood  beside  him,  his  boyish  eyes  hard  in 
a  dead-white  face,  his  boyish  mouth  a  grim,  pale  line. 

"Peter,"  said  the  old  man  presently,  in  a  thin 
whisper,  "I  helped  raise  dat  boy.  Wuz  n't  sich  a  bad 
boy,  neither.  Used  to  sing  en  wissle  roun'  de  house, 
en  fetch  water  en  fiah-wood.  Chloe,  she  loved  'im. 


THE  SOUL  OF  BLACK  FOLKS     57 

Used  to  say  Ouah  Fathuh  right  in  dis  same  room  'fo' 
he  went  to  sleep.  Ef  I  'd  'a'  knowed — 

"En  dat  po'  lil  w'ite  chile's  daddy  en  mammy,  dey 
done  raise  'er — used  to  say  'er  prayers — en  laff  en 
sing — en  trus'  de  Almighty  Gawd — " 

He  raised  his  sinewy  arms  and  shook  the  gun  aloft. 

"Ah,  Gawd  Almighty!  Gawd  Almighty!  Whah 
is  You  dis  night  ?  Whah  is  You  ? ' '  cried  the  old  man. 
And  of  a  sudden  he  began  to  weep  dreadfully ;  heart- 
broken cries  of  pain  and  of  protest,  the  tortured  cries 
of  one  suffering  inhumanly. 

"And  all  this  while  God  said  not  a  word." 

Shaken  to  the  soul,  full  of  sick  horror,  and  loath- 
ing, and  rage,  Peter  Champneys  yet  had  a  swift, 
intuitive  understanding  of  old  Neptune ;  and  as  if 
through  him  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  naked 
and  suffering  soul  of  the  black  people,  the  boy  began 
to  weep  with  him.  With  understanding  merging  into 
pity  he  crept  nearer  and  put  his  slender,  boyish  arm 
around  the  big,  shaking,  agonized  figure,  and  the  old 
man  turned  his  head  and  looked  long  and  sorrowfully 
into  the  white  child's  face.  He  put  out  the  big, 
seamed,  work-hardened  hand  that  had  labored  since 
it  could  hold  an  implement  to  labor  with,  and  laid  it 
on  the  child's  shoulder. 

Then,  bareheaded  and  empty-handed,  Neptune  sat 
down  on  his  cabin  steps  to  wait  for  what  should  hap- 
pen, and  Peter  Champneys  sat  beside  him,  the  gun 
between  his  knees.  Over  there  by  the  fowl-house  lay 
Jake,  a  horrid  blotch  in  the  moonlight. 

Presently,  echoing  through  the  River  Swamp,  the 


58  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

hunting  hounds  set  up  their  thrilling,  deep-mouthed 
belling.  They  were  closing  in  on  their  quarry  and 
the  nearness  of  it  excited  them.  A  few  minutes  later, 
and  here  they  were,  a  posse  of  some  thirty  or  forty 
mounted  men  struggling  pell-mell  after  them.  One 
great  hound  leaped  forward,  stood  rigid  by  that 
which  lay  in  a  heap  in  the  cabin  clearing,  pointed  his 
nose,  and  gave  tongue.  Other  dogs  bunched  around 
him,  sniffed,  and  joined  in. 

The  mounted  men  came  to  an  abrupt  standstill,  the 
horses,  like  the  dogs,  bunching  together.  Neptune 
had  risen  and  Peter  Champneys  stood  on  the  top 
step,  his  head  about  level  with  the  old  man's  shoul- 
der. He  looked  in  vain  for  the  sheriff ;  evidently,  this 
was  an  independent  posse.  One  of  the  men  rode  up 
to  the  door,  shouting  to  make  himself  heard  above  the 
din  of  the  dogs,  and  Peter  recognized  him,  with  a  sink- 
ing of  the  heart — a  tenant  farmer  named  Mosely,  of  a 
violent  and  quarrelsome  disposition. 

"Shet  up  them  damn  dogs!"  he  yelled.  And  to 
Neptune,  savagely : ' '  Now  then,  nigger,  talk !  What  's 
been  doin'  here?" 

It  was  Peter  Champneys  who  answered. 

"Daddy  Neptune  's  been  worried  by  something  or 
somebody  stealing  his  fowls.  He  's  been  on  the  watch. 
So  when  he  saw  that — that  nigger  over  there  run- 
ning by  the  chicken-house,  he  just  blazed  away.  Got 
him  between  the  shoulder-blades." 

A  yell  so  ferocious  that  Peter's  marrow  froze,  burst 
from  the  posse,  which  had  dismounted. 

"It  's  him!"  howled  a  farm-hand,  and  kicked  the 


THE  SOUL  OF  BLACK  FOLKS     59 

corpse  in  the  face.  "What  in  hell  did  that  big  nigger 
shoot  him  for,  anyhow?"  he  roared.  "He  'd  ought  to 
be  strung  up  himself,  the  old  black — "  And  he 
cursed  Neptune  vilely.  He  felt  swindled.  There 
would  be  no  burning,  with  interludes  of  unspeakable 
things.  Nothing  but  senseless  carrion  to  wreak  ven- 
geance upon.  And  all  through  a  damned  old  med- 
dling nigger's  fault!  A  nigger  taking  the  law  into 
his  own  hands ! 

Somebody,  discovering  Daddy  Neptune's  woodpile, 
had  kindled  a  fatwood  torch.  Others  followed  his 
example,  and  the  red,  smoky  light  flared  over  en- 
raged faces  and  glaring  eyes  of  maddened  men ;  over 
the  sweating  horses,  the  baying  dogs,  and  the  black 
corpse  with  its  bruised  face.  The  guinea-hens,  after 
their  insane  fashion,  kept  up  a  deafening  potracking, 
flapping  from  limb  to  limb  of  the  tree  in  which  they 
roosted.  The  indifferent  swamp  chorus  joined  in, 
katydids  and  crickets  shrilling  all  the  while.  And 
over  it  all  the  moon  went  about  its  business ;  the  awful 
depths  of  the  sky  were  silent.  The  wind  from  the 
swamp,  the  night,  the  earth,  didn't  care. 

Somebody  whipped  out  a  knife  and  bent  over 
Jake's  body.  A  yell  greeted  this.  Dogs  and  men 
moved  confusedly  around  the  thing  on  the  ground, 
in  a  sort  of  demoniac  circle  upon  which  the  hissing, 
flaring  pitch-pine  torches  danced  with  infernal  effect. 
Peter  Champneys  watched  it,  his  soul  revolting.  He 
had  no  sympathy  for  Jake;  he  felt  for  him  nothing 
but  hatred.  He  couldn't  think  of  that  gay  and  in- 
nocent girl  coming  down  the  corn-field  path,  un- 


60  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

afraid — to  meet  what  she  had  met — without  a  suf- 
focating sense  of  rage.  She  had  been,  Peter  remem- 
bered, a  very  pretty  girl,  a  girl  who,  as  Neptune  had 
said,  used  to  sing,  and  laugh,  and  say  her  prayers, 
and  trust  Almighty  God. 

But  Peter  was  seeing  now  the  other  side  of  that 
awful  cloud  which  darkens  the  horizon  of  the  South — 
the  brute  beast  mob-vengeance  that  follows  swiftly 
upon  the  heels  of  the  unpardonable  sin.  There  must 
be  justice.  But  what  was  happening  now  wasn't 
justice.  It  was  stark  barbarism  let  loose. 

Neptune,  who  had  "helped  raise"  Jake,  had  meted 
out  to  him  justice  full  and  sure.  He  had  avenged 
both  the  wronged  white  and  the  wronged  black  people. 
Peter  looked  at  the  men  in  the  cabin  clearing,  and 
saw  the  thing  nakedly,  and  from  both  angles.  For 
instance,  consider  Mosely,  who  had  done  things — with 
a  clasp-knife.  And  that  other  man,  the  farm-hand, 
shifty-eyed  and  mean,  always  half  drunk,  a  bad  citi- 
zen :  they  would  be  sure  to  be  foremost  in  affairs  like 
this.  They  had  precious  little  respect  for  the  law  as 
law.  And  here  they  were,  making  the  holy  night  in- 
decent with  bestial  behavior.  Again  a  sick  qualm 
shook  Peter:  Mosely  was  calmly  putting  four  sev- 
ered black  fingers  into  his  coat  pocket.  Oh,  where 
was  the  sheriff?  Why  did  n't  the  sheriff  come? 

Peter  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  shapeless,  battered, 
gory  mass  under  trampling  feet.  Maddened  by  the 
little  they  were  able  to  accomplish,  and  with  the  tor- 
ture-lust that  is  as  old  as  humanity  itself  roused  to 
fury  by  frustration,  the  posse  turned  from  that  which 


THE  SOUL  OF  BLACK  FOLKS     61 

had  been  Jake,  to  old  Neptune,  standing  motionless  by 
Ms  doorway.  Neptune  had  not  moved  or  spoken  since 
Peter  had  answered  the  posse's  questions.  He  had 
not  even  appeared  to  hear  the  vile  abuse  heaped  upon 
him.  He  was  not  in  the  least  afraid  for  his  life :  he 
was  beyond  that.  That  which  had  happened,  which 
was  happening,  had  dealt  the  stern,  simple-hearted 
old  man  so  mighty  a  blow  that  his  faculties  were 
stunned.  He  couldn't  think.  He  could  only  suffer 
a  bewildered,  baffled  torment.  He  stood  there,  dumb 
as  a  sheep  before  the  slaughterers,  and  the  sight  of  his 
black  face  maddened  the  men  who  were  out  to  avenge 
a  black  man's  monstrous  crime. 

"Hang  the  damn  nigger!"  screamed  Mosely,  and 
the  crowd  surged  forward  ominously.  You  could  see, 
by  the  shaking  torch-light,  faces  in  which  the  eyes 
glared  wolf-like,  brandished  fists,  glints  of  guns. 
Neptune,  without  a  flicker  of  fear,  regarded  them 
with  his  sorrowful  gaze.  But  Peter  Champneys 
stepped  in  front  of  him,  and  thrust  the  cold  muzzle  of 
the  shot-gun  against  Mosely 's  face.  The  man,  a  cow- 
ard at  heart,  leaped  back,  trampling  upon  the  toes 
of  those  behind  him,  who  cursed  him  shrilly  and 
vindictively. 

Then  spoke  up  small  Peter  Champneys,  standing 
barefooted  and  bareheaded,  clothed  in  a  coarse  blue 
blouse  and  a  pair  of  patched  and  faded  denim  trou- 
sers, but  for  all  that  heir  to  a  long  line  of  dead-and- 
gone  Champneyses  who  had  been,  whatever  their 
faults,  fearless  and  gallant  gentlemen. 

"Get  back  there,  you,  Mosely!"    Peter  Champneys 


62  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

spoke  in  the  voice  his  grandfather  had  on  a  time  used 
to  a  recalcitrant  field-hand. 

"Chuck  that  little  nigger-lover  in  the  swamp!" 

"Knock  him  down  an'  git  the  nigger,  Mosely!" 

"Burn  down  the  house!" 

But  the  shot-gun  in  that  steady  young  hand  held 
them  in  check  for  a  breathing-space.  They  knew 
Peter  Champneys. 

"Mosely!"  snapped  Peter.  "You,  too,  Nicolson! 
Stand  back,  you  white-livered  hounds !  First  one  of 
you  lays  a  hand  on  me  or  Daddy  Nep  gets  his  head 
blown  off!  Damn  you,  Mosely!  don't  make  me  tell 
you  again  to  get  back!" 

And  Mosely  saw  that  in  the  boy's  eyes  that  drove 
him  back,  swearing. 

The  huge  farm-hand,  who  had  shifted  and  squirmed 
his  way  to  the  back  of  the  crowd,  now  lifted  his  arm. 
A  rope  with  a  noose  at  the  end  snaked  over  the  toss- 
ing heads,  and  all  but  settled  over  black  Neptune's. 
It  slipped,  writhing  from  the  old  man's  shoulder  and 
down  his  shirt.  The  mob  set  up  a  disappointed  and 
yet  hopeful  howl. 

' '  Try  it  again !  Try  it  again ! ' '  they  shrieked. 
Then  a  sort  of  waiting  hush  fell  upon  them.  The 
farm-hand,  to  whom  the  rope  had  been  tossed,  was 
again  making  ready  for  a  throw,  measuring  the  dis- 
tance with  his  eyes.  Peter,  his  lips  tightening,  waited 
too.  The  farm-hand  was  a  tall  man,  and  the  posse 
had  shifted  to  allow  him  space.  His  arm  shot  up, 
the  noosed  rope  whizzed  forward.  But  even  as  it 
did  so  Peter  Champneys 's  trigger-finger  moved.  The 


THE  SOUL  OF  BLACK  FOLKS     63 

report  sounded  like  a  clap  of  thunder,  and  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  roar  of  rage  and  pain.  The  rope-thrower, 
with  the  rope  tripping  his  feet  and  impeding  his 
movements,  danced  about  wildly,  shaking  the  hand 
from  which  three  fingers  had  been  cleanly  clipped. 

At  that  instant  another  posse  rode  up,  with  a  bay- 
ing of  hounds  to  herald  it.  One  saw  the  sheriff  on  a 
large  bay  horse,  a  Winchester  in  the  crook  of  his  arm. 
With  a  merest  glance  at  what  had  been  Jake,  he 
pushed  his  way  through  the  throng,  and  was  con- 
fronted by  Peter  Champneys  standing  in  front  of  old 
Neptune  Fennick,  with  a  smoking  shot-gun  in  his 
hands. 

"You  better  do  something,  quick!  If  you  let  any- 
thing happen  to  Daddy  Nep,  you  've  got  to  kill  me 
first,"  panted  Peter. 

"He  'd  ought  to  be  shot  for  a  nigger-lover, 
Sheriff!"  shouted  the  farm-hand. 

"All  right.  Do  it.  But  you  '11  get  your  neck 
stretched  for  it!  My  name  's  Champneys,"  shouted 
Peter. 

The  sheriff  moved  restlessly  on  his  bay.  A  Champ- 
neys had  fed  his  parents.  Chadwick  Champneys  had 
given  him  his  first  pair  of  shoes.  The  sheriff  was 
stirred  to  the  depths  by  the  crime  that  had  been  com- 
mitted, and  he  had  no  love  for  a  nigger,  but — 

He  turned  to  the  menacing  crowd.  "Here,  boys, 
enough  o'  this!  The  right  nigger  's  dead,  and  that  's 
all  there  is  to  it.  No,  you  don't  do  no  hangin' !  I  'm 
sheriff  o'  this  county,  an'  I  aim  to  keep  the  law. 
Let  that  old  nigger  alone,  Mosely!  If  that  young 


64  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

hell-cat  puts  a  bullet  in  your  chitlin's,  it  '11  be  your 
own  funeral." 

He  straightened  in  the  saddle,  touched  the  rein, 
and  in  a  second  the  big  bay  had  been  swung  around 
to  stand  between  Neptune  and  the  white  men.  The 
muzzle  of  Peter's  gun  touched  the  sheriff's  leg. 

"Put  that  pop-gun  up,  Son,"  said  he,  turning  his 
head  to  look  down  into  the  boy's  face.  Their  eyes 
met,  in  a  long  look. 

"I  knew  that  girl  since  she  was  bawn,"  he  said, 
and  his  hard  face  quivered.  "Hell!"  swore  the 
sheriff,  and  the  hand  on  his  bridle  shook.  He  knew 
old  Neptune,  too,  and  in  his  way  liked  him.  But  it 
was  hard  for  the  sheriff,  who  had  seen  the  dead  little 
girl,  to  look  into  any  black  face  that  night  and  retain 
any  feeling  of  humanity. 

"Yes,  sir.  I  knew  her,  too,"  said  Peter  Champ- 
neys,  gulping.  "But — I  know  Neptune,  too.  And — 
what  happened — wasn't  his  fault.  It  's  got  nothing 
to  do  with  Neptune — and — and  things  that  Mosely — " 
His  voice  broke. 

"Hell!"  swore  the  sheriff  again.  And  he  whis- 
pered, more  gently,  "All  right,  Peter.  An'  I  reckon 
you  better  stay  by  the  old  nigger  for  a  day  or  two 
until  this  thing  dies  down."  After  all,  the  sheriff 
thought  relievedly,  Neptune's  swift  action,  actuated 
by  whatsoever  motive,  had  saved  the  county  and  him- 
self from  a  rather  frightful  episode.  Turning  to  the 
crowd,  he  yelled: 

"Get  them  dogs  started  for  home!  They  're  goin' 
plum  crazy!  Get  on  your  hawse,  Mosely!  You, 


THE  SOUL  OF  BLACK  FOLKS     65 

over  there,  with  your  fist  shot  up,  ride  next  to  me. 
Mount,  all  o'  you!  Mount,  I  say!  No,  I  '11  come 
last. 

"What  's  that  you  're  sayin',  Briggs?  No,  suh,  not 
by  a  damn-sight  you  won 't !  Not  while  I  'm  sheriff 
o'  this  county  an'  upholdin'  law  an'  order  in  it,  you 
won't  drag  no  dead  nigger  behind  my  hawse — nor 
yet  in  front  of  him,  neither!  Let  the  nigger  lay 
where  he  is  and  rot — what  's  left  of  him." 

"Do  you  want  us  to  bury — it?"  quavered  Peter. 

"Bury  it  or  burn  it.  What  the  hell  do  I  care  what 
you  do  with  it?"  growled  the  sheriff.  "He  's  dead, 
that  's  all  I  got  to  think  about."  He  ran  his  shrewd 
eyes  over  the  posse,  saw  that  not  one  straggler  re- 
mained to  do  further  mischief,  and  drove  them  be- 
fore him,  willy-nilly.  In  five  minutes  the  trampled 
yard  was  clear,  and  the  sound  of  the  horses'  hoofs 
was  already  dying  in  the  distance.  In  the  sky  all 
other  stars  had  paled  to  make  room  for  the  morning 
star. 

Peter  and  Neptune,  left  alone,  looked  at  each  other 
dumbly.  A  thing  remained  to  be  done.  The  sun 
mustn't  rise  upon  the  horror  that  lay  in  the  cabin 
yard.  Neptune  went  to  his  small  barn  and  trundled 
out  a  wheelbarrow,  in  which  were  several  gunny-sacks, 
a  piece  of  rope,  and  a  spade. 

Peter  turned  his  head  away  while  the  old  man  cov- 
ered the  thing  on  the  ground  with  sacking,  rolled  it 
over,  floppily,  and  tied  it  as  best  he  could.  The  sweat 
came  out  on  them  both  as  they  saw  the  stains  that 
spread  on  the  clean  sacking.  Neptune  heaped  the 


66  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

bundle  into  his  wheelbarrow.  At  a  word  from  him 
Peter  went  into  the  house  and  returned  with  a  lighted 
lantern,  for  the  River  Swamp  was  still  very  dark. 
The  sun  wouldn't  be  up  for  an  hour  or  two  yet. 
Peter  held  the  lantern  in  one  hand,  and  carried  spade 
and  shot-gun  over  the  other  shoulder.  In  the  ghostly 
light  they  entered  the  swamp,  every  turn  and  twist 
of  whose  wide,  watery  acreage  was  known  to  Nep- 
tune, and  was  fairly  familiar  to  Peter.  They  had 
to  proceed  warily,  for  the  ground  was  treacherous, 
and  at  any  moment  a  jutting  tree-root  might  upset 
the  clumsy  barrow.  Despite  Neptune's  utmost  care 
it  bumped  and  swayed,  and  the  shapeless  bundle  in  it 
shook  hideously,  as  if  it  were  trying  to  escape.  And 
the  stains  on  the  coarse  shroud  grew,  and  spread. 

In  a  small  and  fairly  dry  space  among  particularly 
large  cypresses,  Neptune  stopped.  At  one  side  was  a 
deep  pool  in  whose  depths  the  lantern  was  reflected. 
About  it  ferns,  some  of  a  great  height,  grew  thickly. 
Neptune  began  to  dig  in  the  black  earth.  Sometimes 
he  struck  a  cypress  root,  against  which  the  spade 
rang  with  a  hollow  sound.  It  was  slow  enough  work, 
but  the  hole  in  the  swamp  earth  grew  with  every 
spade-thrust,  like  a  blind  mouth  opening  wider  and 
wider.  Peter  held  the  lantern.  The  trees  stood 
there  like  witnesses. 

Presently  Neptune  straightened  his  shoulders, 
moved  back  to  the  barrow,  and  edged  it  to  the  hole. 
Swiftly  and  deftly  he  tipped  it,  and  the  shapeless 
bundle  slid  into  the  open  mouth  awaiting  it.  It 
was  curiously  still  just  then  in  the  River  Swamp. 


THE  SOUL  OF  BLACK  FOLKS     67 

When  they  emerged  into  the  open,  the  sun  was  ris- 
ing over  a  clean,  fresh  world.  The  dark  tops  of  the 
trees  were  gilded  by  the  first  rays.  Every  bush  was 
hung  with  diamonds,  the  young  grass  rippled  like  a 
child's  hair,  and  birds  were  everywhere,  voicing  the 
glory  of  the  morning. 

The  old  negro  dropped  his  wheelbarrow,  and  lifted 
a  supplicating  face  and  a  pair  of  gnarled  hands  to  the 
morning  sky.  His  lips  moved.  One  saw  that  he 
prayed,  trustingly,  with  a  childlike  simplicity. 

Peter  Champneys  watched  him  speculatively.  He 
tried  to  reason  the  thing  out,  and  the  heart  in  his 
boyish  breast  ached  with  a  new  pain.  Thoughts  big, 
new,  insistent,  knocked  at  the  door  of  his  intellect 
and  refused  to  be  denied  admittance. 

He  thought  it  better  to  take  the  sheriff's  advice  and 
stay  with  Neptune  for  a  few  days,  but  nobody  trou- 
bled the  good  old  man.  The  verdict  of  the  whole 
county  was  in  his  favor.  He  went  his  harmless,  fear- 
less, laborious  way  unmolested.  That  autumn  he 
died,  and  the  cabin  by  the  River  Swamp  was  taken 
over  by  nature,  who  gave  it  to  her  winds  and  rains  to 
play  with.  Her  leaves  drifted  upon  its  floor,  her 
birds  built  under  its  shallow  eaves. 

Nobody  would  live  there  any  more.  The  negroes 
said  the  place  was  haunted :  on  wild  nights  one  might 
hear  there  the  sound  of  a  shot,  the  baying  of  a  hound ; 
and  see  Jake  running  for  the  swamp. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

EMMA  CAMPBELL  had  one  of  her  contrary 
fits,  and  when  Emma  was  contrary,  the  best 
thing  to  do  was  to  keep  out  of  her  way.  Her 
' '  palate  was  down, ' '  her  temper  was  up ;  she  'd  had 
trouble  with  the  Young  Sons  and  Daughters  of  Zion, 
in  her  church,  and  hot  words  with  a  deacon  who  said 
that  when  he  passed  the  cup  Emma  Campbell  lapped 
up  nearly  all  the  communion  wine,  which  was  some- 
thing no  lady  ought  to  do.  And  Cassius  had  taken 
unto  himself  a  fourth  spouse,  and,  without  taking 
Emma  into  his  confidence,  had  gotten  her  to  wash  and 
iron  his  wedding-shirt  for  him.  So  Emma's  " palate 
was  down,"  and  not  even  three  toothpicks  and  two 
spoons  in  her  hair  had  been  able  to  get  it  up.  Peter, 
therefore,  took  a  holiday.  He  filled  his  pockets  with 
bread,  and  set  out  with  no  particular  destination  in 
mind. 

At  a  turn  in  the  Riverton  Eoad  he  met  the  Red 
Admiral. 

He  stopped,  reflectively.  He  hadn't  seen  the  Ad- 
miral in  some  time,  and  it  pleased  him  to  be  led  by 
that  gay  adventurer  now.  The  Admiral  flitted  down 
the  Riverton  Road,  and  Peter  ran  gaily  after  him. 


THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS  69 

He  led  the  boy  a  fine  chase  across  fields,  and  out  on 
the  road  again,  and  then  down  a  lane,  and  along  the 
river,  and  through  the  pines,  and  finally  to  the  River 
Swamp  woods.  Peter  came  fleet-footed  to  Neptune's 
old  cabin,  raced  round  it,  and  then  stopped,  in  utter 
confusion  and  astonishment.  On  the  back  steps,  with 
an  umbrella  beside  her,  and  an  easel  in  front  of  her, 
sat  a  young  woman  so  busy  getting  a  bit  of  the  swamp 
upon  her  canvas  that  she  didn't  hear  or  see  Peter 
until  he  was  upon  her.  Then  she  looked  up,  with  her 
paint-brush  in  her  hand. 

"Hello!"  said  she,  in  the  friendliest  fashion, 
"where  did  you  come  from?" 

She  was  a  big  girl,  blue  as  to  eyes,  brown  as  to 
hair,  and  with  a  fresh-colored,  good-humored  face. 
Her  glance  was  singularly  clear  and  direct,  and  her 
smile  so  comradely  that  Peter  took  an  instantaneous 
liking  to  her.  He  wondered  what  on  earth  she  meant 
by  coming  here,  to  this  lonely  place,  all  by  herself. 
But  she  was  making  a  picture,  and  his  interest  was 
more  in  that  than  in  the  painter. 

"May  I  look  at  it,  please?"  he  asked  politely.  He 
smiled  at  her,  and  Peter  had  a  mighty  taking  smile 
of  his  own. 

"Of  course  you  may!"  said  the  lady,  genially. 
Hands  behind  his  back,  Peter  stared  at  the  canvas. 
Then  he  stepped  back  yet  farther,  lifted  one  hand, 
and  squinted  through  the  fingers.  The  young  lady 
regarded  him  with  growing  interest. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  she  asked. 

The  young  woman  wasn't  a  quick  worker,  but  she 


70  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

was  a  careful  one,  and  very  exact.  Unfinished  though 
it  was,  the  picture  showed  that ;  and  it  showed,  too,  a 
lack  of  something  vital;  there  was  no  spontaneity 
in  it. 

"I  've  never  seen  anybody  paint  before,  though 
I  've  always  wanted  to,"  said  Peter,  and  fetched  an 
unconscious  sigh  of  envy. 

"You  haven't  said  whether  or  not  you  like  it," 
the  girl  reminded  him. 

"It  isn't  finished,"  said  Peter.  His  eyes  went  to 
the  familiar  woods,  the  beloved  woods,  and  came  back 
to  her  canvas.  "I  think  when  it  's  finished  it  will 
be  like  a  photograph,"  he  added. 

Claribel  Spring — for  that  was  the  big  girl's  name 
— knew  her  own  limitations;  but  to  meet  a  criti- 
cism so  exact  and  so  just,  from  a  barefooted  child 
in  the  South  Carolina  wilds  wasn't  to  be  expected. 
She  took  a  longer  look  at  the  boy  and  thought  she 
had  never  before  seen  a  pair  of  eyes  so  absolutely, 
clearly  golden.  Those  eyes  would  create  a  distinct 
impression  upon  people :  either  you  'd  like  them,  or 
you  'd  find  them  so  strange  you  'd  think  them  ugly. 
She  herself  thought  them  beautiful. 

"You  seem  to  know  something  about  pictures,  even 
unfinished  ones, ' '  she  told  him  comradely.  ' '  And  may 
I  ask  who  you  are,  and  why  and  how  you  come  flying 
out  of  the  nowhere  into  the  here  of  these  forsaken 
woods?" 

"Oh,  I  'm  only  Peter  Champneys,"  said  the  boy 
with  the  golden  eyes,  shyly.  "I  hope  I  did  n't  startle 
you?  It  's  my  butterfly's  fault.  You  see,  I  never 


THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS  71 

know  where  I  've  got  to  follow  him,  or  what  I  'm  go- 
ing to  find  when  I  get  there." 

"Your  butterfly?  You  mean  that  Red  Admiral 
that  just  whizzed  by?  He  skimmed  over  my  easel," 
said  the  young  lady. 

"Is  that  his  real  name?"  Peter  was  enchanted. 
"A  black  fellow  with  red  on  his  coat-tails,  and  a 
sash  like  a  general's?  Then  that  's  my  butterfly!" 
said  Peter,  happily.  He  smiled  at  the  girl  again,  and 
finished,  naively:  "I  owe  that  butterfly  a  whole  heap 
of  good  luck!" 

She  told  him  she  was  spending  some  time  with  the 
Northern  people  who  had  lately  bought  Lynwood 
Plantation,  a  few  miles  down  the  river.  She  liked  to 
prowl  around  and  paint  things. 

"And  now,"  she  asked,  "would  you  mind  telling 
me  something  more  about  that  butterfly  of  yours? 
And  where  some  more  of  the  good  luck  comes  in?" 
She  was  growing  more  and  more  interested  in  Peter. 

Peter  dropped  down  beside  the  easel,  his  hands 
clasped  loosely  between  his  knobby  knees.  It  seemed 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that  he  should 
find  himself  talking  freely  to  this  Yankee  girl;  it 
was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that  she 
should  understand.  So  Peter,  who,  as  a  rule,  would 
have  preferred  to  be  beaten  with  rods  rather  than 
divulge  his  feelings,  told  her  exactly  what  she  wished 
to  know.  This  must  be  blamed  upon  the  Red  Ad- 
miral ! 

She  caught  a  sharp  outline  of  the  child's  life,  poor 
in  material  circumstances,  but  crowded  to  the  brim 


72  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

with  thought  and  feeling  and  emotion,  and  colorful 
as  the  coast  country  was  colorful.  He  had  kept  him- 
self, she  thought,  as  sweet  and  limpid  as  a  mountain 
spring.  He  was  wistful,  eager,  and  mad  to  know 
things.  His  eyes  went  back  again  and  again,  with 
a  sort  of  desperate  hunger  in  them,  to  the  canvas  on 
her  easel,  as  if  the  secret  of  him  lay  there.  The  girl 
sat  with  her  firm  white  chin  in  her  firm  white  hands, 
and  looked  down  at  Peter  with  her  bright  blue  Yankee 
eyes,  and  understood  him  as  none  of  his  own  people 
had  ever  understood  him.  She  even  understood  what 
his  innate  reticence  and  decency  held  back.  "Who 
shall  say  that  the  Admiral  was  n  't  a  fairy  ? 

"I  'd  like  to  see  that  first  little  sketch,"  she  said, 
when  he  had  finished.  Her  eyes  were  very  sweet. 

For  a  second  he  nesitated.  Then  he  rose,  went  into 
the  deserted  cabin,  and  took  from  the  cupboard  a 
dusty  bundle  of  papers — pieces  of  white  cardboard, 
sheets  of  letter-paper,  any  sort  of  paper  he  had  been 
able  to  lay  his  hands  on.  Riverton  and  the  surround- 
ing country,  as  Peter  Champneys  saw  it,  unrolled  be- 
fore her  astonished  eyes.  It  was  roughly  done,  and 
there  were  glaring  faults;  but  there  was  something 
in  the  crude  work  that  wasn't  in  the  canvas  on  her 
easel,  and  she  recognized  it.  She  singled  out  several 
sketches  of  an  old  negro  with  a  bald  head  and  a 
white  beard,  and  a  stern,  fine  face  innate  with  dignity. 
She  said  quietly : 

"You  are  quite  right,  Peter:  the  Red  Admiral  is 
undoubtedly  a  fairy."  And  after  a  moment,  study- 


THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS  73 

ing  the  old  man's  face:  "He  's  rather  a  remarkable 
old  man,  isn't  he?" 

Peter  looked  around  him.  On  that  terrible  night 
Daddy  Neptune  had  stood  just  where  the  easel  was 
standing  now ;  over  there  by  the  tumble-down  chicken 
house,  Jake  had  fallen;  and  the  space  that  was  now 
green  with  grass  had  been  full  of  vengeful  men,  and 
howling  dogs,  and  trampling  horses.  Peter  took  the 
sketch  from  her,  looked  at  it  for  a  long  moment,  and, 
as  briefly  as  he  could,  and  keeping  himself  very  much 
in  the  background,  he  told  her. 

Claribel  Spring  looked  around  her,  almost  disbe- 
lieving that  such  a  thing  could  happen  in  such  a 
place.  She  looked  at  the  quiet-faced  boy,  at  the 
sketches,  and  shook  her  head. 

When  she  was  ready  to  go,  Peter  helped  pack  her 
traps,  picked  up  her  paint-box,  and  slung  her  folding- 
easel  and  camp-stool  across  his  shoulder.  Lynwood 
was  some  three  miles  from  the  River  Swamp,  and 
shall  a  gentleman  allow  a  lady  to  lug  her  belongings 
that  distance? 

"Miss  Spring,"  said  Peter,  anxiously,  as  they 
reached  the  porch  of  Lynwood,  "Miss  Spring,  do  you 
expect  to  go  about  these  woods  much — by  yourself?" 

"Why,  yes!  Nobody  here  has  time  to  prowl  with 
me,  you  see.  And  I  can 't  stay  indoors.  I  've  got  to 
make  the  most  of  these  woods  while  I  have  the  oppor- 
tunity." 

Peter  looked  troubled.  His  brows  puckered.  "I 
wonder  if  you  'd  mind  if  I  just  sort  of  stayed  around 


74  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

so  I  could  look  after — I  mean,  so  I  could  watch  you 
painting  ?  May  I  ?  Please  ! ' ' 

Claribel  sensed  something  tense  under  that  request. 
She  longed  to  get  at  Peter's  thought  processes.  She 
was  immensely  interested  in  this  shabby  little  chap 
who  made  astonishing  sketches  and  whose  personality 
was  so  intriguing. 

"Why,  of  course  you  may,  Peter.  But  would  you 
mind  telling  me  just  why  you  want  to  come  with  me — 
aside  from  the  painting?" 

Peter  shifted  from  one  bare  foot  to  the  other. 

"Because  somebody  's  got  to  go  with  you,"  he 
blurted  flatly.  "Don't  the  people  here  know  you 
mustn't  go  off  like  that,  by  yourself?  There — well, 
Miss  Spring,  there  are  bad  folks  everywhere,  I  reckon. 
Our  niggers" — Peter's  head  went  up — "are  the  best 
niggers  in  the  world.  But — sometimes —  And — 
and — "  He  looked  at  her,  trying  to  make  her  under- 
stand. 

Claribel  Spring  considered  him.  He  might  be  about 
fourteen.  His  head  just  reached  her  shoulder.  And 
he  was  offering  to  take  care  of  her,  to  be  her  pro- 
tector! That  's  what  his  anxiety  meant.  "Oh,  you 
darling  little  gentleman!"  she  thought. 

"I  see.  And  I  '11  be  perfectly  delighted  if  you 
can  manage  to  come  with  me,  Peter,"  said  she,  sin- 
cerely. ' '  And  listen :  I  Ve  been  thinking  about 
those  sketches  of  yours,  while  we  were  walking  home, 
and  I  've  got  the  nicest  little  plan  all  worked  out  in 
my  mind.  You  shall  take  me  around  these  woods, 
which  you  know  and  I  don't.  You  '11  be  my  guide, 


THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS  75 

philosopher,  and  friend.  In  return  I  '11  teach  you 
what  I  can.  You  needn't  bother  about  materials: 
I  have  loads  of  stuff  for  the  two  of  us.  What  do  you 


It  was  so  unexpected,  so  marvelous,  that  an  electri- 
fied and  transformed  Peter  looked  at  her  with  a  face 
gone  white  from  excess  of  astonished  rapture,  and  a 
pair  of  eyes  like  pools  in  paradise  when  the  stars  of 
heaven  tremble  in  their  depths. 

Claribel  Spring  was  a  better  teacher  than  artist,  as 
she  discovered  for  herself.  She  had  the  divine  fac- 
ulty of  imparting  knowledge  and  at  the  same  time 
arousing  enthusiasm;  and  she  had  such  a  pupil  now 
as  real  teachers  dream  of.  It  wasn't  so  much  like 
learning,  with  Peter;  it  was  as  if  he  were  being  re- 
minded of  something  he  already  knew.  He  had  never 
had  a  lesson  in  his  whole  life,  he  didn't  go  about 
things  in  the  right  manner,  and  there  were  grave 
faults  to  be  overcome ;  but  he  had  the  thing  itself. 

She  taught  him  more  than  the  rudiments  of  tech- 
nique, more  than  the  mere  processes  of  mixing  colors, 
more  than  shading  and  form,  and  perspective,  and  flat 
surfaces,  and  high  lights,  and  foreshortening.  She 
was  the  first  person  from  the  outside  world  with  whom 
Peter  had  ever  come  into  real  contact,  the  first  person 
not  a  Southerner  with  whom  he  had  ever  been  inti- 
mately friendly.  And  oddly  enough,  Peter  taught  her 
a  few  things. 

Eiverton  learned  that  Peter  Champneys  had  been 
engaged  as  a  sort  of  fetch-and-carry  boy  by  that  big 
Yermont  girl  who  was  stopping  at  Lynwood.  They 


76  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

thought  Miss  Spring  charming,  when  they  occasion- 
ally met  her,  but  when  it  came  to  trapesing  about  the 
woods  like  a  gipsy,  quite  as  irresponsible  as  Peter 
Champneys  himself— "  Birds  of  a  feather  flock  to- 
gether," you  know. 

Claribel  Spring  was  just  at  that  time  passing 
through  a  Gethsemane  of  her  own,  and  she  needed 
Peter  quite  as  badly  as  he  needed  her.  Peter  was 
really  a  godsend  to  the  girl.  Her  quiet  self-control 
kept  any  one  from  discovering  that  she  was  cruelly 
unhappy,  but  Peter  did  at  times  perceive  the  shadow 
upon  her  face,  and  he  knew  that  the  silence  that  some- 
times fell  upon  her  was  not  always  a  happy  one.  At 
such  times  he  managed  to  convey  to  her  delicately, 
without  words,  his  sympathy.  He  piloted  her  to 
lovely  places,  he  made  her  pause  to  look  at  birds' 
nests,  at  corners  of  old  fences,  at  Carolina  wild-flow- 
ers. And  when  he  had  made  her  smile  again,  he  was 
happy.  To  Peter  that  was  the  swiftest,  happiest, 
most  enchanted  summer  he  had  ever  known. 

It  ended  all  too  soon.  He  went  up  to  Lynwood  one 
morning  to  find  Claribel  packing  for  a  hasty  de- 
parture. It  was  a  new  Claribel  that  morning,  a 
Claribel  with  a  rosy  face  and  shining  eyes  and  smil- 
ing lips.  She  had  gotten  news,  she  told  Peter  joy- 
ously, that  called  her  away  at  once — beautiful  news. 
The  most  wonderful  news  in  the  world ! 

She  turned  over  to  Peter  all  the  material  she  had 
on  hand,  and  gave  him  painstaking  directions  as  to 
how  he  was  to  proceed,  what  he  was  to  strive  for, 
what  to  avoid.  And  she  said  that  when  he  had  be- 


THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS  77 

come  a  great  man  in  the  big  world,  one  of  these  days, 
he  wasn't  to  forget  that  she'd  prophesied  it,  and 
had  been  allowed  to  play  her  little  part  in  his  career. 
Then  she  kissed  Peter  as  nobody  had  ever  kissed  him 
except  his  mother.  And  so  she  left  him. 

He  was  turning  fifteen  then,  and  getting  too  big 
for  the  penny  jobs  Riverton  had  in  pickle  for  him. 
Nothing  better  offering,  he  hired  out  that  autumn 
to  a  farmer  who  fed  his  stock  better  than  he  did  his 
men.  Peter's  mouth  still  twists  wryly  when  he  re- 
members that  first  month  of  heavy  farm  work.  The 
mule  was  big  and  Peter  wasn't,  the  plow  and  the 
soil  were  heavy,  and  Peter  was  light.  Trammell,  the 
farmer,  held  him  to  his  task,  insisting  that  "a  boy 
who  couldn't  learn  to  plow  straight  couldn't  learn 
to  do  nothin'  else  straight,  and  he  'd  better  learn  now 
while  he  had  the  chanst."  Peter  would  have  cheer- 
fully forfeited  his  chance  to  learn  to  plow  straight; 
but  the  thing  was  there  to  do,  and  he  tried  to  do  it. 

Sunday,  his  one  free  day,  was  the  only  thing  that 
made  life  at  all  endurable  to  Peter.  It  was  a  day 
to  be  looked  forward  to  all  through  the  heavy  week. 
Early  in  the  morning,  with  such  lunch  as  he  could 
come  by,  his  worn  Bible  in  his  coat  pocket  and  a 
package  of  paper  under  his  arm,  Peter  disappeared, 
not  to  return  until  nightfall.  The  farmer's  over- 
burdened wife  was  glad  enough  to  see  him  go;  that 
meant  one  less  for  whom  to  cook  and  to  wash  dishes. 

All  the  week,  after  his  own  fashion,  Peter  had  been 
observing  things.  On  Sundays  he  tried  to  put  them 
down  on  paper.  He  had  the  great,  rare,  sober  gift 


78  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

of  seeing  things  as  they  are,  a  gift  given  to  the  very 
few.  A  negro  plowing  in  a  flat  brown  field  behind  a 
horse  as  patient  as  himself;  an  old  woman  in  a  red 
jacket  and  a  plaid  bandana,  feeding  a  flock  of  tur- 
keys ;  a  young  girl  milking ;  a  boy  driving  an  unruly 
cow — all  the  homely,  common,  ordinary  things  of 
everyday  life  among  the  plain  people,  Peter,  who  had 
been  set  down  among  the  plain  people,  tried  to  crowd 
on  his  scanty  supply  of  drawing-paper  on  Sunday 
in  the  woods. 

Peter  had  learned  to  draw  animals  playing,  and 
birds  flying,  and  butterflies  fluttering,  and  folks  work- 
ing. But  he  could  n  't  draw  a  decent  living- wage  for 
his  daily  labor.  He  was  only  a  boy,  and  it  seemed 
to  be  a  part  of  the  scheme  of  things  that  a  boy  should 
be  asked  to  do  a  man's  work  for  a  dwarf's  wages. 
And  the  food  they  gave  him  at  the  Trammell  farm- 
house was  beginning  to  tell  on  him.  Peter  asked  for 
more  money  and  was  refused  with  contumely.  He 
asked  for  a  change  of  diet,  and  was  informed  vio- 
lently that  this  country  is  undoubtedly  going  to  the 
dogs  when  folks  like  himself  "think  theirselfs  too 
dinged  uppidy  for  good  victuals.  Eat  'em  or  leave 
'em!" 

Peter  couldn't  eat  them  any  more,  so  he  left  them. 
He  discharged  himself  out  of  hand,  and  went  back  to 
Riverton  and  Emma  Campbell  with  forty  dollars  and 
a  bundle  of  sketches. 

The  doctor  in  Riverton  got  most  of  the  forty  dol- 
lars. However,  as  he  needed  a  boy  in  his  drug  store 
just  then,  he  gave  the  place  to  Peter,  who  took  it 


THE  BURPLE  HEIGHTS  7$ 

willingly  enough,  as  he  was  still  feeling  the  effects 
of  bad  food  and  heavy  farm  work.  He  learned  to 
roll  pills  and  weigh  out  lime-drops  and  mix  soft 
drinks,  and  to  keep  his  patience  with  women  who 
wanted  only  a  one-cent  stamp,  and  expected  him  to 
lick  it  for  them  into  the  bargain. 

Grown  into  a  gawky  chap  of  sixteen,  Peter  did  n't. 
impress  people  too  favorably.  They  felt  for  him  the- 
instinctive  distrust  of  the  conservative  and  commer- 
cial mind  for  the  free  and  artistic  one.  The  Peter 
Champneyses  of  the  world  challenge  the  ideal  of  com- 
mercial success  by  their  utter  inability  to  see  in  it: 
the  real  reason  for  being  alive,  and  the  chief  end  of 
man.  They  are  inimical  to  smugness  and  to  com- 
placent satisfaction.  Naturally,  safe  and  sane  citi- 
zens resent  this. 

There  was  one  person  in  Riverton  who  didn't 
share  the  general  opinion  that  Peter  Champneys  was 
trifling,  and  that  was  Mrs.  Humphreys.  Mrs.  Hum- 
phrey still  tasted  that  ice-cream  and  cake  Peter  had 
given  to  old  Daddy  Christmas  on  a  hot  afternoon. 
It  was  she  who  presently  persuaded  her  husband  to 
take  Peter  into  his  hardware  store,  at  a  better  salary 
than  the  doctor  paid  him. 

Everybody  agreed  that  it  was  noble  of  Sam  Hum- 
phreys to  take  Peter  on.  Of  course,  Peter  was  as 
honest  as  the  sun,  but  he  wasn't  businesslike.  Not 
to  be  businesslike  is  the  American  sin  against  the 
Holy  Ghost.  It  is  far  less  culpable  to  begin  with  the 
first  of  the  deadly  sins  on  Sunday  morning  and  finish 
up  the  last  of  the  seven  on  Saturday  night,  than  to 


80  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

have  your  neighbors  say  you  aren't  businesslike. 
Had  Peter  taken  to  tatting,  instead  of  to  sketching 
niggers  in  ox-carts,  and  men  plowing,  and  women 
washing  clothes,  Eiverton  couldn't  have  been  more 
impatient  with  him.  Artists,  so  far  as  the  average 
American  small  town  is  concerned,  are  ineffectual  per- 
sons, godless  creatures  long  on  hair  and  short  on 
morals,  men  whom  nobody  respects  until  they  are 
decently  dead.  It  disgusted  Eiverton  that  Peter 
Champneys,  who  had  had  such  a  nice  mother  and 
come  from  a  good  family,  should  follow  such  exam- 
ples. 

But  Peter  meant  to  hold  fast  to  his  one  power, 
though  every  hand  in  the  world  were  against  it, 
though  every  tongue  shouted  "Fool,"  though  for  it 
he  should  go  hungry  and  naked  and  friendless  to  the 
end  of  his  days.  He  wished  to  get  away  from  River- 
ton,  to  study  in  some  large  city  under  good  teachers. 
Claribel  Spring  had  stressed  the  necessity  of  good 
teachers.  Grimly  he  set  himself  to  work  to  obtain 
at  least  a  start  toward  the  coveted  end. 

By  incredible  efforts  he  had  managed  to  save  one 
hundred  and  ten  dollars,  when  Emma  Campbell  fell 
ill  with  a  misery  in  her  legs.  Although  she  had  a 
conjure  bag  around  her  neck,  a  rabbit  foot  in  her 
pocket,  and  a  horseshoe  nailed  above  the  door,  she 
was  helpless  for  a  while,  and  Peter  had  to  hire  an- 
other colored  woman  to  care  for  her. 

Emma  was  just  on  her  feet  when  Cassius  took  it  into 
Ms  head  to  die.  There  was  a  confusion  of  husbands 
and  wives  between  Emma  and  Cassius,  but  she 


THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS  81 

mourned  for  him  shrilly.  "What  deepened  her  distress 
was  the  fact  that  in  repudiating  him  his  last  wife 
had  carried  off  all  his  small  possessions,  and  there 
was  no  money  left  to  bury  him.  Now,  not  to  be  buried 
with  due  and  fitting  ceremonies  and  the  displayed 
insignia  of  some  churchly  Buryin'  Society,  is  a  ca- 
lamity and  a  disgrace.  Emma  felt  that  she  could 
never  hope  to  hold  up  her  head  again  if  Cassius  had 
to  be  buried  by  town  charity. 

Peter  Champneys  hadn't  lived  among  and  liked 
the  colored  people  all  these  years  for  nothing.  He 
looked  at  big  Emma  Campbell  sitting  beside  the 
kitchen  table  with  her  head  buried  in  her  arms,  a 
prey  to  woe.  Then  he  went  to  the  bank  and  drew 
what  remained  of  his  savings.  Cassius  was  gathered 
to  his  fathers  with  all  the  accustomed  trappings,  and 
Emma's  grief  was  turned  to  proud  joy.  But  it  was 
another  proof  of  the  unbusinesslike  mind  of  Peter 
Champneys.  His  small  savings  were  gone;  he  had 
to  begin  all  over  again. 

Decidedly,  the  purple  heights  were  a  long,  long 
way  off ! 


CHAPTER  VI 

GOOD  MORNING,   GOOD  LUCK! 

ON  a  particular  Sunday  Peter  Champneys  was 
making  for  his  favorite  haunt,  the  grass- 
grown  clearing  and  the  solitary  and  deserted 
cabin  by  the  River  Swamp.  It  was  to  him  a  place 
not  of  desolation  but  of  solitude,  and  usually  he  fled 
to  it  as  to  a  welcome  refuge.  But  to-day  his  step 
lagged.  The  divine  discontent  of  youth,  the  rebellion 
aginst  the  brute  force  of  circumstance,  seethed  in  him 
headily.  Here  he  was,  in  the  lusty  April  of  his  days, 
and  yet  life  was  bitter  to  his  palate,  and  there  was 
canker  at  the  heart  of  the  rose  of  Spring.  Nothing 
was  right. 

The  coast  country,  always  beautiful,  was  at  its  best, 
the  air  sweet  with  the  warm  breath  of  summer.  The 
elder  was  white  with  flowers,  and  in  moist  places, 
where  the  ditches  dipped,  huge  cat-tails  swayed  to  the 
light  wind.  Roses  rioted  in  every  garden;  when  one 
passed  the  little  houses  of  the  negroes  every  yard  was 
gay  with  pink  crape-myrtle  and  white  and  lilac  Rose 
of  Sharon  trees.  All  along  the  worm-fences  the 
vetches  and  the  butterfly-pea  trailed  their  purple; 
everywhere  the  horse-nettle  showed  its  lovely  milk- 
white  stars,  and  the  orange-red  milkweed  invited  all 
82 


GOOD  MORNING,  GOOD  LUCK!  83 

the  butterflies  of  South  Carolina  to  come  and  dine  at 
her  table.  There  were  swarms  of  butterflies,  cohorts 
of  butterflies,  but  among  all  the  People  of  the  Sky  he 
missed  the  Red  Admiral. 

Peter  particularly  needed  the  gallant  little  sailor's 
heartening.  It  was  a  bad  sign  not  to  meet  him  this 
morning;  it  confirmed  his  own  opinion  that  he  was 
an  unlucky  fellow,  a  chap  doomed  to  remain  a  non- 
entity, one  fitted  for  nothing  better  than  scooping 
out  a  nickel's  worth  of  nails,  or  wrapping  up  fifty- 
cent  frying-pans ! 

He  walked  more  and  more  wearily,  as  if  it  tired  him 
to  carry  so  heavy  a  heart.  Life  was  unkind,  nature 
cruel,  fate  a  trickster.  One  was  caught,  as  a  rat  in 
a  trap,  "in  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance."  "What 
was  the  use  of  anything?  Why  any  of  us,  anyhow? 

And  still  not  a  glimmer  of  the  Admiral!  At  this 
season  of  the  year,  when  he  should  have  been  in  evi- 
dence, it  was  ominously  significant  that  he  should 
be  missing.  Peter  trudged  another  half-mile,  and 
stopped  to  rest. 

"Let  's  put  this  thing  to  the  test,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, seriously.  ' '  That  little  chap  has  always  been  my 
Sign.  Well,  now,  if  I  meet  one,  something  good  is 
going  to  happen.  If  I  meet  two,  I  '11  get  my  little 
chance  to  climb  out  of  this  hole.  If  I  meet  three,  it  's 
me  for  the  open  and  the  big  chance  to  make  good. 
And  if  I  don't  meet  any  at  all — why,  I  '11  be  nobody 
but  Riverton  Peter  Champneys." 

He  did  n  't  give  himself  the  chance  that  on  a  time 
Jean  Jacques  gave  himself  when  he  threw  a  stone  at 


84  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

a  tree,  and  decided  that  if  it  struck  the  tree  he  'd 
get  to  heaven,  and  if  it  missed  he  'd  go  to  hell — but 
so  placed  himself  that  there  was  nothing  for  that 
stone  to  do  but  hit  the  tree  in  front  of  it.  Peter 
would  run  his  risks. 

And  still  no  Admiral !  It  was  silly ;  it  was  super- 
stitious; it  was  childish;  Peter  was  as  well  aware  of 
that  as  anybody  could  be.  But  his  heart  went  down 
like  a  plummet. 

He  had  turned  into  the  grassy  road  that  led  to  the 
Eiver  Swamp.  The  pathway  was  bordered  with 
sumac  and  sassafras  and  flowering  elder,  and  clumps 
of  fennel,  and  thickets  of  blackberry  bramble.  In 
clear  spaces  the  tall  candle  of  the  mullein  stood  up 
straight,  a  flame  of  yellow  flowers  flickering  over  it. 
Near  by  was  the  thistle,  shaking  its  purple  paint- 
brush. 

Peter  stopped  dead  in  his  tracks  and  stared  as  if 
he  weren't  willing  to  believe  his  own  eyesight.  He 
went  red  and  white,  and  his  heavy  heart  turned  a 
cart-wheel,  and  danced  a  jig,  and  began  to  sing  as 
a  young  heart  should.  On  the  farthest  thistle,  as  if 
waiting  for  him  to  come,  as  if  they  knew  he  must  come, 
with  their  sails  hoisted  over  their  backs,  were  three 
Bed  Admirals! 

Peter  dropped  in  the  grass,  doubled  his  long  legs 
under  him,  and  watched  them,  his  mouth  turned  right 
side  up,  his  eyes  golden  in  his  dark  face.  Two  of 
them  presently  flew  away.  The  third  walked  over 
the  thistle,  tentatively,  flattened  his  wings  to  show  his 
sash  and  shoulder-straps. 


GOOD  MORNING,  GOOD  LUCK!     85 

"Good  morning,  good  luck!  You  're  still  my 
Sign!"  said  Peter. 

The  Red  Admiral  fluttered  his  wings  again,  as  if  he 
quite  understood.  He  allowed  Peter  to  admire  his 
under  wings,  the  fore-wings  so  exquisitely  jeweled  and 
enameled,  the  lower  like  a  miniature  design  for  an 
oriental  prayer-rug.  He  sent  Peter  a  message  with 
his  delicate,  sensitive  antennae,  a  wireless  message  of 
hope.  Then,  with  his  quick,  darting  motion,  he 
launched  himself  into  his  native  element  and  was 
gone. 

The  day  took  on  new  loveliness,  a  happy,  intimate, 
all-pervading  beauty  that  flowed  into  one  like  light. 
Never  had  the  trees  been  so  comradely,  the  grass  so 
friendly,  the  swamp  water  so  clear,  so  cool. 

For  a  happy  forenoon  he  worked  in  Neptune's 
empty  cabin,  whose  open  windows  framed  blue  sky 
and  green  woods,  and  wide,  sunny  spaces.  He  ate 
the  lunch  Emma  Campbell  had  fixed  for  him.  Then 
he  went  over  to  the  edge  of  the  River  Swamp  and  lay 
under  a  great  oak,  and  slipping  his  Bible  from  his 
pocket,  read  the  Thirty-seventh  Psalm  that  his  mother 
had  so  loved.  The  large,  brave,  grave  words  splashed 
over  him  like  cool  water,  and  the  little,  hateful  things, 
that  had  been  like  festering  splinters  in  his  flesh,  van- 
ished. There  were  flowering  bay-trees  somewhere 
near  by,  diffusing  their  unforgetable  fragrance;  the 
flowering  bay  is  the  breath  of  summer  in  South  Caro- 
lina. He  sniffed  the  familiar  odor,  and  listened  to  a 
redbird's  whistle,  and  to  a  mocking-bird  echoing  it; 
and  to  the  fiddling  of  grasshoppers,  the  whispers  of 


86  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

trees,  the  quiet,  soft  movement  of  the  swamp  wa- 
ter. The  long  thoughts  that  came  to  him  in  the 
open  crossed  his  mind  as  clouds  cross  the  sky,  idly, 
moving  slowly,  breaking  up  and  drifting  with  the 
wind.  A  bee  buzzed  about  a  spike  of  blue  lobelia; 
ants  moved  up  and  down  the  trunk  of  the  oak-tree; 
birds  and  butterflies  came  and  went.  With  his  hands 
under  his  head,  Peter  lay  so  motionless  that  a  great 
brown  water-snake  glided  upon  a  branch  not  ten  feet 
distant,  overhanging  a  brown  pool  whose  depths  a 
spear  of  sunlight  pierced.  The  young  man  had  a 
curious  sense  of  personal  detachment,  such  as  comes 
upon  one  in  isolated  places.  He  felt  himself  a  part 
of  the  one  life  of  the  universe,  one  with  the  whistling 
redbird,  the  toiling  ants,  the  fluttering  butterflies,  the 
chirping  grasshoppers,  the  great  brown  snake,  the 
trees,  the  water.  The  earth  breathed  audibly  against 
his  ear.  He  sensed  the  awefulness  and  beauty  of 
this  oneness  of  all  things,  and  the  immortality  of  that 
oneness;  and  in  comparison  the  littleness  of  his  own 
personal  existence.  With  piercing  clarity  he  saw  how 
brief  a  time  he  had  to  work  and  to  experience  the 
beauty  and  wonder  of  his  universe.  Then,  healingly, 
dreamlessly,  wholesomely,  he  fell  asleep,  to  wake  at 
sunset  with  a  five-mile  tramp  ahead  of  him. 

Long  before  he  reached  Riverton  the  dark  had 
fallen.  It  was  an  evening  of  many  stars.  The  wind 
carried  with  it  the  salty  taste  of  the  sea,  and  the 
smell  of  the  warm  country. 

A  light  burned  in  his  own  dining-room,  which  was 
sitting-room  as  well,  and  a  much  pleasanter  room  than 


GOOD  MORNING,  GOOD  LUCK!  87 

his  mother  had  known,  for  books  had  accumulated  in 
it,  lending  it  that  note  books  alone  can  give.  He  had 
added  a  reading-lamp  and  a  comfortable  arm-chair. 
Emma  Campbell's  flowers,  planted  in  anything  from 
a  tomato-can  to  an  old  pot,  filled  the  windows  with 
gay  blossoms. 

Peter  found  his  supper  on  a  covered  tray  on  the 
kitchen  table.  Emma  herself  had  gone  off  to  church. 
The  Seventh  Commandment  had  no  meaning  for 
Emma,  she  was  hazy  as  to  mine  and  thine,  but  she 
clung  to  church  membership.  She  was  a  pious  woman, 
given  to  strenuous  spells  of  "wrastlin'  wid  de  Speret." 

Peter  fetched  his  tray  into  the  dining-room,  and  had 
just  touched  a  match  to  the  spirit  kettle,  when  a 
motor-car  honked  outside  his  gate. 

Peter's  house  was  at  some  distance  from  the  nearest 
neighbour's,  and  fancying  this  must  be  a  complete 
stranger  to  have  gotten  so  far  off  the  beaten  track  as 
to  come  down  this  short  street  which  was  nothing  but 
a  road  ending  at  the  cove,  he  went  to  his  door  pre- 
pared to  give  such  directions  as  might  be  required. 

Somebody  grunted,  and  climbed  out  of  the  car. 
In  the  glare  of  the  lamps  Peter  made  out  a  man  as 
tall  as  himself,  in  a  linen  duster  that  came  to  his 
heels,  and  with  an  automobile  cap  and  goggles  con- 
cealing most  of  his  face.  The  stranger  jerked  the 
gate  open,  and  a  moment  later  Peter  was  confronting 
the  goggled  eyes. 

"Are  you,"  said  a  pleasant  voice,  "by  good  for- 
tune, Peter  Champneys?" 

"Well,"  said  Peter,  truthfully,  "I  can't  say  any- 


88  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

thing  about  the  good  fortune  of  it,  but  I  'm  Peter 
Champneys. ' ' 

The  stranger  paused  for  a  moment.  He  said  in  a 
changed  tone:  "I  have  come  three  thousand  miles  to 
have  a  look  at  and  a  talk  with  you." 

"Come  in,"  said  Peter,  profoundly  astonished, 
"and  do  it."  And  he  stepped  aside. 

His  guest  shook  himself  out  of  dust-coat  and  goggles 
and  stood  revealed  an  old  man  in  a  linen  suit — a 
tall,  thin,  brown,  very  distinguished-looking  old  man, 
with  a  narrow  face,  a  drooping  white  mustache,  bushy 
eyebrows,  a  big  nose,  and  a  pair  of  fine,  melancholy 
brown  eyes.  He  stared  at  Peter  devouringly,  and 
Peter  stared  back  at  him  quite  as  interestedly. 

"Peter  Champneys:  Peter  Devereaux  Champneys, 
I  have  come  across  the  continent  to  see  you.  Well! 
Here  you  are — and  here  I  am.  Have  you  the  remotest 
idea  who  I  am  ?  what  my  name  is  1 "  Peter  shook  his 
head  apologetically.  He  hadn't  the  remotest  idea. 
Yet  there  was  something  vaguely  familiar  in  the 
tanned  old  face,  some  haunting  likeness  to  somebody, 
that  puzzled  him. 

"My  name,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "is  Champ- 
neys— Chadwick  Champneys.  Your  father  used  to 
call  me  Chad,  when  we  were  b9ys  together.  I  'm  his 
brother — and  your  uncle,  Nephew — and  glad  to  make 
your  acquaintance.  I  '11  take  it  for  granted  you  're 
as  pleased  to  make  mine.  Now  that  I  see  you  clearly, 
let  me  add  that  if  I  met  your  skin  on  a  bush  in  the 
middle  of  the  Sahara  desert,  I  'd  know  it  for  a 
Champneys  hide.  Particularly  the  beak.  You  look 


GOOD  MORNING,  GOOD  LUCK!  89 

like  me."  Peter  stared.  It  was  quite  true:  tie  did 
resemble  Chadwick  Champneys.  The  two  shook 
hands. 

"But,  Uncle  Chad—  Why,  we  thought—  Well, 
sir,  you  see,  we  heard  you  were  dead." 

"Yes.  I  heard  so  myself,"  said  Uncle  Chad,  se- 
renely. "In  the  meantime,  may  I  ask  you  for  a 
bite?  I  'm  somewhat  hungry." 

Peter  set  another  plate  for  his  guest,  and  brewed 
tea,  and  the  two  drew  up  to  the  table.  Emma  Camp- 
bell had  provided  an  excellent  meal,  and  Mr.  Chad- 
wick  Champneys  plied  an  excellent  knife  and  fork, 
remarking  that  when  all  was  said  and  done  one  South 
Carolina  nigger  was  worth  six  French  chefs,  and  that 
he  hadn't  eaten  anything  so  altogether  satisfactory 
for  ages. 

The  more  the  young  man  studied  the  elder  man's 
face,  the  better  he  liked  it.  Figure  to  yourself  a 
Don  Quixote  not  born  in  Spain  but  in  South  Caro- 
lina, not  clothed  in  absurd  armor  but  in  a  linen  suit, 
and  who  rode,  not  on  Rosinante  but  in  a  motor-car, 
and  you  '11  have  a  fair  enough  idea  of  the  old  gentle- 
man who  popped  into  Peter's  house  that  Sunday 
night. 

Peter  asked  no  questions.  He  sat  back,  and  waited 
for  such  information  as  his  guest  chose  to  convey. 
He  felt  bewildered,  and  at  the  same  time  happy.  He 
who  was  so  alone  of  a  sudden  found  that  he  possessed 
this  relative,  and  it  seemed  to  him  almost  too  good 
to  be  true.  That  the  relative  had  never  before  no- 
ticed his  existence,  that  he  was  supposed  to  be  a 


90  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

trifler  and  a  ne'er-do-weel,  didn't  cloud  Peter's  joy. 

His  relative  put  his  feet  on  a  chair,  lighted  and 
smoked  a  cutty,  and  presently  unbosomed  himself, 
jerkily,  and  with  some  reluctance.  His  wife  Milly — 
and  whenever  he  mentioned  her  name  the  melancholy 
in  his  brown  eyes  deepened — had  been  dead  some 
twelve  years  now.  They  had  had  no  children.  He 
had  wandered  from  south  to  west,  from  Mexico  and 
California  and  Yucatan  to  Alaska,  always  going  to 
strike  it  lucky  and  always  missing  it.  To  the  day  of 
her  death  Milly  had  stood  by,  loyally,  lovingly,  unself- 
ishly, his  one  prop  and  solace,  his  perfect  friend  and 
comrade.  There  was  never,  he  said,  anybody  like  her. 
And  Milly  died.  Died  poor,  in  a  shack  in  a  mining- 
town. 

He  had  done  something  of  everything,  from  selling 
patent  medicines  to  taking  up  oil  and  mining-claims. 
He  couldn't  stay  put.  He  really  didn't  care  what 
happened  to  him,  and  so  of  course  nothing  happened 
to  him.  That  's  the  way  things  are. 

Three  years  after  Milly 's  death  he  had  fallen  in 
with  Feilding,  the  Englishman.  Feilding  was  almost 
on  his  last  legs  when  the  two  met,  and  Champneys 
nursed  him  back  to  life.  The  silent,  rather  surly 
Englishman  refused  to  be  separated  from  the  man 
who,  he  said,  had  saved  his  life,  and  the  two  struck 
up  a  partnership  of  mutual  misfortune.  They 
tramped  and  starved  and  worked  together,  until  Feild- 
ing died,  leaving  to  his  partner  his  sole  possessions — 
a  mining-claim  and  a  patent-medicine  recipe.  He  had 
felt  about  down  and  out,  the  night  Feilding  died,  for 


GOOD  MORNING,  GOOD  LUCK!  91 

the  Englishman  was  the  one  real  friend  he  had  made, 
the  one  person  who  loved  him  and  whom  he  loved, 
after  Milly. 

But  instead  of  his  being  down  and  out,  the  tide  had 
even  then  turned  for  Chadwick  Champneys.  His 
friendless  wanderings  were  about  done.  The  mining- 
claim  was  worth  a  very  great  deal;  and  the  patent 
medicine  did  at  least  some  of  the  things  claimed  for 
it.  He  took  it  to  a  certain  firm,  offering  them  two 
thirds  of  the  first  and  half  of  the  second  year's  profits 
for  handling  the  thing  for  him.  They  closed  with 
the  offer,  and  from  the  very  first  the  medicine  was  a 
money-maker.  It  would  always  be  a  best-seller. 

And  then  the  irony  of  fate  stepped  in  and  took  a 
hand  in  Chadwick  Champneys 's  affairs.  The  man 
who  had  hitherto  been  a  failure,  the  man  whose  touch 
had  seemed  able  to  wither  the  most  promising  busi- 
ness sprouts,  found  himself  suddenly  possessed  of 
the  Midas  touch.  He  could  n't  go  into  anything  that 
did  n't  double  in  value.  He  was  n't  able  to  fail.  Let 
him  buy  a  barren  bit  of  land  in  Texas,  say,  and  oil 
would  presently  be  discovered  in  it;  or  a  God-for- 
saken tract  in  the  West  Virginia  mountains,  and  coal 
would  crop  out;  or  a  huddle  of  mean  houses  in  some 
unfashionable  city  district,  and  immediately  com- 
merce and  improvement  strode  in  that  direction,  and 
what  he  had  bought  by  the  block  he  sold  by  the  foot. 

Because  he  was  alone,  and  growing  old,  Champ- 
neys's  heart  turned  to  his  own  people.  He  learned 
that  his  brother's  orphaned  son  was  still  in  the  South 
Carolina  town.  And  there  was  a  girl,  Milly 's  niece. 


92  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

These  two  were  the  only  human  beings  with  whom 
the  rich  and  lonely  man  could  claim  any  family  ties. 

Peter  was  so  breathless  with  interest  and  sympathy, 
so  moved  by  the  wanderings  of  this  old  Ulysses,  and 
so  altogether  swept  off  his  feet  by  the  irruption  of 
an  uncle  into  his  uncleless  existence,  that  he  hadn't 
time  for  a  thought  as  to  the  possible  bearing  it  might 
have  upon  his  own  fortunes.  "When,  therefore,  his 
uncle  wound  up  with,  "I  '11  tell  you,  Nephew,  it  's  a 
mighty  comforting  thing  for  a  man  to  have  some  one 
of  his  own  blood  and  name  close  to  his  hand  to  carry 
on  his  work  and  fulfil  his  plans,"  Peter  came  to  his 
senses  with  a  shock  as  of  ice-water  poured  down  his 
backbone.  He  knew  it  wasn't  in  him  to  carry  out 
any  business  schemes  his  uncle  might  have  in  mind. 

"Uncle  Chad,"  said  he,  honestly.  "Don't  be  mis- 
taken about  me,  and  don't  set  your  heart  on  trying 
to  train  me  into  any  young  Napoleon  of  Finance. 
It  's  not  in  me."  And  he  added,  gently,  "I  'm  sorry 
I  'm  a  dub.  I  'd  like  to  please  you,  and  I  hate  to 
disappoint  you ;  but  you  might  as  well  know  the  truth 
at  once." 

Uncle  Chad  looked  him  up  and  down  with  shrewd 
eyes. 

"So?"  said  he,  and  fell  to  pulling  his  long  mus- 
tache. "What  's  the  whole  truth,  Nephew?  If  you 
don't  feel  equal  to  learning  how  to  run  a  million- 
dollar  patent-medicine  plant,  what  do  you  feel  you  'd 
be  good  at,  hey?" 

"I  'm  good  in  my  own  line:  I  want  to  be  an 
artist.  I  am  going  to  be  an  artist,  if  I  have  to  starve 


GOOD  MORNING,  GOOD  LUCK!  93 

to  death  for  it ! "  said  Peter.  He  spread  out  his  hands. 
"I  have  one  life  to  live,  and  one  thing  to  do!"  he 
cried. 

' '  Oh,  an  artist !  I  've  never  heard  of  any  Champ- 
neys  before  you  who  had  such  a  hankering,  though 
I  'm  quite  sure  it  's  all  right,  if  you  like  it,  Nephew. 
There  's  no  earthly  reason  why  an  artist  shouldn't 
be  a  gentleman,  though  I  could  wish  you  'd  have  taken 
over  the  patent-medicine  business,  instead.  Have 
you  got  anything  I  can  see?" 

Shyly  and  reluctantly,  Peter  began  to  show  him. 
There  were  two  or  three  oils  by  now ;  powerful  sketches 
of  country  life,  with  its  humor  and  pathos ;  hepds  of 
children  and  of  negroes ;  bits  of  the  River  Swamp ;  all 
astonishingly  well  done. 

"Paintings  are  curious  things;  some  have  got  life 
and  some  haven't  got  anything  I  can  see,  except 
paint.  There  was  one  I  saw  in  New  York,  now.  I 
thought  at  first  it  was  a  mess  of  spinach.  I  stood  off 
and  looked,  and  I  walked  up  close  and  looked,  and 
still  I  could  n't  see  anything  but  the  same  green  mess. 
But — will  you  believe  it,  Nephew? — that  thing  was 
The  Woods  in  Spring !  Thinks  I,  They  evidently  boil 
their  Woods  in  Spring  up  here,  before  painting  'em ! 
The  things  one  paints  nowadays  don't  look  like  the 
things  they  're  painted  from,  I  notice.  I  'm  afraid 
these  things  of  yours  look  too  much  like  real  things 
to  satisfy  folks  it  's  real  art. — You  sure  the  Lord 
meant  you  to  be  an  artist  ? ' ' 

Peter  laughed.  "I  'm  sure  I  mean  myself  to  be 
an  artist,  Uncle  Chad." 


94  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

"Want  to  get  away  from  Kiverton,  don't  you? 
But  that  costs  money?  And  you  haven't  got  the 
money?" 

"I  want  to  get  away  from  Riverton.  But  that 
costs  money,  and  I  haven't  got  the  money,"  admitted 
Peter. 

"I  see.  Now,  Nephew,  when  it  gets  right  down  to 
the  thing  he  really  wants  to  do,  every  man  has  some 
horse  sense,  even  if  he  happens  to  be  a  fool  in  every- 
thing else.  I  '11  talk  to  your  horse  sense  and  save 
time." 

Peter,  in  the  midst  of  scattered  drawings,  and  of 
the  few  oils  backed  up  against  the  dining-room  wall, 
paused. 

"I  could  wish,"  said  his  uncle,  slowly,  "that  you 
were — different.  But  you  are  what  you  are,  and  it 
would  be  a  waste  of  time  to  try  to  make  you  different. 
You  say  you  have  one  thing  to  do.  All  right,  Peter 
Champneys,  you  shall  have  your  chance  to  do  it, — 
with  a  price-tag  attached.  Do  you  want  to  be  what 
you  say  you  want  to  be  hard  enough  to  be  willing  to 
pay  the  price  for  it?" 

"You  mean — to  go  away  from  here — to  study?  To 
see  real  pictures — and  be  a  student  under  a  real 
teacher?"  Peter's  voice  all  but  failed  him.  His 
face  went  white,  and  his  eyes  glittered.  He  began 
to  tremble.  His  uncle,  watching  him  narrowly, 
nodded. 

"Yes.  Just  that.  Everything  that  can  help  you, 
you  shall  have — time,  teachers,  money,  travel.  But 
first  you  must  pay  me  my  price." 


GOOD  MORNING,  GOOD  LUCK!     95 

Peter  could  only  lean  forward  and  stare.  He  was 
afraid  he  was  going  to  wake  up  in  a  minute. 

"Let  me  see  if  I  can  make  it  quite  clear  to  you, 
Peter.  You  never  knew  Milly — my  wife  Milly. 
You  're  not  in  love,  Son,  are  you?  No?  Well,  you 
won't  be  able  to  understand — yet." 

"There  was  my  mother,  sir,"  said  Peter,  gently. 

"I  'm  sorry,"  said  the  other,  just  as  gently.  "I 
wish  it  had  come  sooner,  the  luck.  But  it  did  n't,  and 
I  can't  do  anything  for  Milly, — or  for  your 
mother.  They  're  gone. ' '  For  a  moment  he  hung  his 
head. 

"But,  Peter,  I  can  do  considerable  for  you,  and  I 
mean  to  do  it.  Only  I  can't  bear  to  think  Milly 
shouldn't  have  her  share  in  it.  We  never  had  a 
child  of  our  own,  but  there  's  Milly 's  niece." 

"Oh,  but  of  course,  Uncle  Chad!  Aunt  Milly 's 
niece  ought  to  come  in  for  all  you  can  do  for  her, 
even  before  me, ' '  said  Peter,  heartily,  and  with  entire 
good  faith. 

"You  are  your  father's  son,"  said  Uncle  Chad, 
ambiguously.  "But  what  I  wish  to  impress  upon  you 
is,  that  neither  of  you  comes  before  the  other:  you 
come  together."  He  paused  again,  and  from  this 
time  on  never  removed  his  eyes  from  his  nephew's 
face,  but  watched  him  hawk-like.  "You  will  under- 
stand there  is  a  great  deal  of  money — enough  money 
to  found  a  great  American  family.  Why  shouldn't 
that  family  be  the  Champneyses?  Why  shouldn't 
the  Champneyses  be  restored  to  their  old  place,  put 
where  they  rightfully  belong?  And  who  and  what 


96  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

should  bring  this  about,  except  you,  and  Milly's  niece, 
and  my  money?" 

"I  'm  afraid  I  don't  quite  understand,"  said  Peter, 
and  looked  as  bewildered  as  he  felt.  He  wasn't  a 
quick  thinker.  ""What  is  it  you  wish  me  to  do?" 

Still  holding  his  eyes,  "I  want  you  to  marry  Milly's 
niece,"  said  Chadwick  Champneys.  "That  's  my 
price." 

"Marry?  I?  Oh,  but,  Uncle  Chad !  "Why,  I  don't 
even  know  the  girl,  nor  she  me !  I  've  never  so  much 
as  heard  of  her  until  this  minute!"  cried  Peter. 

"What  difference  does  that  make?  Men  and 
women  never  know  each  other  until  after  they  re  mar- 
ried anyhow,"  said  his  uncle,  sententiously.  "Peter, 
do  you  really  wish  to  go  abroad  and  study?  Very 
well,  then :  marry  Milly's  niece.  I  '11  attend  to  every- 
thing else." 

"But  whyf  My  good  God!  why?"  Peter's  eyes 
popped. 

"Nephew,"  said  his  uncle,  patiently,  "you  are  the 
last  Champneys;  she  is  Milly's  niece — my  Milly's 
niece.  And  Milly  is  dead,  and  I  am  practically  un- 
der sentence  of  death  myself.  I  have  got  to  put  my 
affairs  in  order.  I  'd  hardly  learned  I  was  a  very 
rich  man  before  I  also  learned  my  time  was  limited. 
On  high  authority.  Heart,  Nephew.  I  may  last  for 
several  years.  Or  go  out  like  a  puff  of  wind,  before 
morning. ' ' 

Peter  was  so  genuinely  shocked  and  distressed  at 
this  that  his  uncle  smiled  to  himself.  The  boy  was  a 
true  Champneys. 


GOOD  MORNING,  GOOD  LUCK!  97 

"There  is  no  error  in  the  diagnosis,  so  I  accept 
what  I  can't  help,  and  in  the  meantime  arrange  my 
affairs.  Now,  Nephew  Peter,  business  man  or  artist 
the  Champneys  name  is  in  your  keeping.  You  are  the 
head  of  the  house,  so  to  speak.  I  supply  the  funds 
to  refurnish  the  house,  we  '11  say,  and  I  give  you  your 
opportunity  to  do  what  you  want  to  do,  to  make  your 
mark  in  your  own  way.  In  exchange  you  accept  the 
wife  I  provide  for  you.  When  I  meet  Milly  again,  I 
want  to  tell  her  there  's  somebody  of  her  own  blood 
bearing  our  name,  taking  the  place  of  the  child  we 
never  had,  enjoying  all  the  good  things  we  missed, 
and  enjoying  them  with  a  Champneys,  as  a  Champ- 
neys. If  there  are  to  be  Champneys  children,  I 
want  Milly 's  niece  to  bear  them.  I  won't  divide  my 
money  between  two  separate  houses;  it  must  all  go 
to  Peter  Champneys  and  his  wife,  that  wife  being 
Milly 's  niece."  His  eyes  began  to  glitter,  his  mouth 
hardened.  "  It  is  little  enough  to  ask ! "  he  cried,  rais- 
ing his  voice.  "I  give  you  everything  else.  I  do  not 
ask  you  to  change  your  profession.  I  make  that  pro- 
fession possible  by  supplying  the  means  to  pursue  it. 
In  payment  you  marry  Milly 's  niece." 

His -manner  was  so  passionately  earnest  that  the 
astonished  boy  took  his  head  in  his  hands  to  consider 
this  amazing  proposition. 

"But  how  in  heaven's  name  can  I  study  if  I  'm 
plagued  with  a  wife?"  he  demanded.  "I  want  to  be 
foot-loose ! ' ' 

' '  All  right.  You  shall  be  foot-loose,  for  seven  years, 
let  's  say,"  said  his  uncle,  quietly.  "I  reason  that  if 


98  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

you  are  ever  going  to  be  anything,  you  '11  at  least  have 
made  a  beginning  within  seven  years !  You  're  twenty 
now,  are  you  not?  When  you  marry  my  girl,  you 
shall  go  abroad  immediately.  She  11  stay  with  me 
until  her  education  is  completed.  Your  wife  shall  be 
trained  to  take  her  proper  place  in  the  world.  On 
your  twenty-seventh  birthday  you  will  return  and 
claim  her.  I  do  not  need  anything  more  than  the 
bare  word  of  a  Champneys  that  he  '11  be  what  a  man 
should  be.  Milly's  niece  will  be  safe  in  your  keep- 
ing.— Well?" 

"Let  me  think  a  bit,  Uncle." 

"Take  until  morning.  In  the  meanwhile,  please 
help  me  get  my  car  under  shelter,  and  show  me  where 
I  turn  in  for  the  night."  Being  in  some  things  a 
very  considerate  old  man,  he  did  not  add  that  he 
had  found  the  day  strenuous,  and  that  his  strength 
was  ebbing. 

Peter,  lying  on  the  lounge  in  the  dining-room,  was 
unable  to  sleep.  Was  this  the  chance  his  mother  had 
said  would  come?  Was  n't  matrimony  rather  a  small 
price  to  pay  for  it?  Or  was  it?  And — hadn't  he 
promised  his  mother  to  take  it  when  it  came,  for  the 
sake  of  all  the  Champneyses  dead  and  gone,  and  for 
her  own  sake  who  had  loved  him  so  tenderly  and  be- 
lieved in  him  against  all  odds? 

At  dawn  he  stole  out  of  the  house,  and  walked 
the  three  miles  to  the  country  cemetery  where  his 
mother  slept  beside  his  father.  He  sat  beside  her 
last  bed,  and  remembered  the  cold  hand  that  had 
crept  into  his,  the  faltering  whisper  that  prayed 


GOOD  MORNING,  GOOD  LUCK!     99 

him  to  take  his  chance  when  it  came,  and  to  prove 
himself. 

If  he  refused  this  miraculous  opportunity,  there 
would  be  Eiverton,  and  the  hardware  store,  or  other 
country  stores  similar  to  it,  to  the  end  of  his  days. 
No  freedom,  no  glorious  opportunities,  no  work  of 
brain  and  hand  together,  no  beauty  wrought  of 
thought  and  experience ;  the  purple  peaks  fading  into 
farther  and  farther  distances  until  they  faded  out  of 
his  sky  altogether;  and  himself  a  sorry  plodder  in  a 
path  whose  dust  choked  him.  Peter  shuddered. 
Anything  but  that ! 

Mr.  Chadwick  Champneys  was  sitting  by  the  din- 
ing-room table  talking  to  astonished  Emma  Campbell, 
and  stroking  the  cat,  when  Peter  came  swinging  into 
the  room. 

"Well?"  with  a  keen  glance  at  his  nephew's  face. 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  deliberately. 

The  old  man  went  on  stroking  the  cat  for  a  moment 
or  so,  while  Emma  Campbell,  the  hominy-spoon  in 
her  hand,  watched  them  both.  She  understood  that 
something  momentous  portended.  Not  for  nothing 
had  this  shrewd,  imperious  old  man  whom  she  had 
known  in  his  youth  as  wild  Chad  Champneys,  led 
Emma  on  to  tell  him  all  she  knew  about  the  family 
history  since  his  departure,  years  ago.  When  Emma 
had  finished,  Chadwick  Champneys  felt  that  he  knew 
his  nephew  to  the  bone ;  and  it  was  Champneys  bone ! 

"Thank  you,  Nephew,"  said  he,  in  a  deep  voice. 
"You  're  a  good  lad.  You  won't  regret  your  bar- 
gain. I  promise  you  that. ' ' 


100  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

He  turned  to  Emma  Campbell: 

"If  my  breakfast  is  ready,  I  'm  ready  too,  Emma." 
And  to  Peter:  "We  were  renewing  our  old  acquain- 
tance, Emma  and  I,  while  you  were  out,  Nephew. 
She  has  n  't  changed  much :  she  's  still  the  biggest 
nigger  and  the  best  cook  and  the  faithfulest  friend  in 
all  Carolina." 

"Oh,  go  'long,  Mist'  Chad!  "Who  you  'speck  ought 
to  look  after  Miss  Maria's  chile,  'ceptin'  ole  Emma 
Campbell?  Lawd  'a'  mussy,  ain't  I  wiped  'is  nose 
en  dusted  'is  britches  sense  he  bawn?  Dat  Peter,  he 
belonged  to  Miss  Maria  en  me.  He  's  we  chile,"  said 
Emma  Campbell. 

Over  his  coffee  Mr.  Champneys  outlined  his  plans 
carefully  and  succinctly.  Peter  was  to  hold  himself 
in  readiness  to  proceed  whither  his  uncle  would  direct 
him  by  wire.  In  the  meantime  he  was  to  settle  his 
affairs  in  Riverton. 

"Uncle  Chad,"  said  Peter,  to  whom  the  thought 
had  just  occurred,  "Uncle  Chad,  now  that  I  have 
agreed  to  do  what  you  wish  me  to  do,  what  is  the 
young  lady 's  name  ?  You  did  n 't  tell  me. ' ' 

"Her  name?  "Why,  God  bless  my  soul,  I  forgot, 
I  forgot !  Well !  Her  name  's  Anne  Simms.  Called 
Nancy.  Soon  be  Nancy  Champneys,  thank  Heaven !" 
And  he  repeated:  "Nancy  Champneys!  Anne  Champ- 
neys!" 

"Uncle,"  said  Peter,  deprecatingly,  "you  '11  under- 
stand— I  'm  a  little  interested — excuse  me  for  asking 
you — but  what  does  the  young  lady  look  like?" 

Mr.  Chadwick  Champneys  blinked  at  his  nephew. 


GOOD  MORNING,  GOOD  LUCK!         101 

"Look  like?  You  want  to  know  what  Milly's  niece 
looks  like?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Peter,  modestly.  "I— er— that  is, 
the  thought  occurred  to  me  to  ask  you  what  she  looks 
like." 

Mr.  Champneys  scratched  the  end  of  his  nose, 
pulled  his  mustache,  and  looked  unhappy. 

"Nephew  Peter,"  said  he,  "do  what  I  do:  take  it 
for  granted  Milly's  niece  looks  like  any  other  girl — 
nose  and  mouth  and  hair  and  eyes,  you  know.  But  I 
can 't  describe  her  to  you  in  detail. ' ' 

"No?    Why?"    Peter  wondered. 

"Because  I  have  never  laid  eyes  on  her,"  said  his 
uncle. 

"  Oh ! "    Peter  looked  thunderstruck. 

"I  came  to  you  first,"  explained  his  uncle.  "I 
gave  you  first  whack.  Now  I  'm  going  to  see  her." 

"Oh!"  said  Peter,  still  more  thunderstruck. 

"I  '11  wire  you  when  you  're  to  come,"  said  his 
uncle,  briskly,  and  got  into  dust-coat,  cap,  and  gog- 
gles. A  few  minutes  later,  before  the  little  town  was 
well  awake,  he  vanished  in  a  cloud  of  dust  down  the 
Riverton  Road. 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHERE   THE  ROAD   DIVIDED 

EMMA  CAMPBELL  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
kitchen  floor,  lips  pursed,  eyes  fixed  on  va- 
cancy, a  dish-cloth  dangling  from  one  hand, 
a  carving-knife  clutched  in  the  other,  and  projecked. 
And  the  more  she  projecked  about  what  was  hap- 
pening in  Peter's  house,  the  less  she  liked  it.  It  had 
never  occurred  to  Emma  Campbell  that  Peter  might 
go  away  from  Riverton.  Yet  now  he  was  going,  and 
it  had  been  taken  for  granted  that  she,  Emma,  who, 
as  she  said,  had  "raised  'im  from  a  puppy  up'ards," 
wouldn't  mind  staying  on  here  after  his  departure. 
Fetching  a  cold  sigh  from  the  depths  of  an  afflicted 
bosom,  Emma  moved  snail-like  toward  the  work  in 
hand;  and  as  she  worked  she  howled  dismally  that 
nobody  knew  the  trouble  she  saw,  "nobody  knew  but 
you,  Lawd." 

When  Peter  came  in  to  dinner,  she  addressed  him 
with  distant  politeness  as  Mistuh  Champneys,  instead 
of  the  usual  Mist'  Peter.  When  he  spoke  to  her 
she  accordion-plaited  her  lips,  and  stuck  her  eyes  out 
at  him.  Her  head,  adorned  with  more  than  the  usual 
quota  of  toothpicks,  brought  the  quills  upon  the  fret- 
ful porcupine  forcibly  to  one's  mind. 
102 


WHERE  THE  ROAD  DIVIDED          103 

Nobody  but  Peter  Chamneys  could  or  would  have 
borne  with  Emma  Campbell's  contrary  fits,  but  as 
neither  of  them  realized  this  they  managed  to  get 
along  beautifully.  Peter  was  well  aware  that  when 
the  car  that  had  suddenly  appeared  in  the  night  had 
just  as  suddenly  disappeared  in  the  morning  in  a 
cloud  of  dust  on  the  Riverton  Road,  Emma's  peace  of 
mind  had  vanished  also.  He  understood,  and  was 
patient. 

She  clapped  a  platter  of  crisp  fried  chicken  before 
him,  and  stood  by,  eyeing  him  and  it  grimly.  And 
when  hungry  Peter  thrust  his  fork  into  a  tempting 
piece,  "You  know  who  you  eatin'?"  she  demanded 
pleasantly. 

Peter  didn't  know  whom  he  was  eating;  fork  sus- 
pended, he  looked  at  Emma  questioningly. 

"You  eatin'  Lula,  dat  who  you  eatin',"  Emma  told 
him  with  grisly  unction.  "Dem  's  de  same  laigs  use 
to  scratch  roun'  we  kitchen  do'.  Dat  's  de  same 
lovin  '-hearted  hen  I  raise  f um  a  baby.  But,  Lawd ! 
Whut  you  care?  You  's  de  sort  kin  go  trapesin'  off 
by  yo'se'f  over  de  worl'.  You  dat  uppidy  dese  days, 
whut  you  care  'bout  eatin'  up  po'  lil  Lula?  She 
ain't  nobody  but  US-all's  chicken,  nohow!" 

Peter  looked  doubtfully  at  "po'  lil  Lula's"  re- 
mains, and  laid  down  his  fork.  Somehow,  one  can't 
be  keen  about  eating  a  loving-hearted  hen. 

"But,  Emma,  we  eat  our  chickens  all  the  time! 
You  've  fried  me  many  a  chicken  without  raising  a 
row  about  it ! "  he  protested. 

"Who  toP  you  dey  wuz  ours?" 


104  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

As  Peter  had  n  't  a  fitting  reply  in  return  for  this 
ambiguous  query,  Emma  bounced  out  of  the  dining- 
room,  to  return  in  a  moment  with  the  tea-pot ;  when 
Peter  held  out  his  cup,  she  poured  into  it  plain  boil- 
ing water.  At  that  she  set  the  tea-pot  hastily  upon 
the  table,  threw  her  gingham  apron  over  her  head, 
and  plumped  upon  the  floor  with  a  thud  that  made 
the  house  shake.  It  frightened  the  cat  into  going 
through  the  window  at  a  leap,  taking  with  him  all  the 
flowers  planted  in  tomato-cans. 

"Emma,"  said  Peter,  severely,  "I  'm  ashamed  of 
you!  Take  that  silly  apron  off  your  head  and  listen 
to  me.  You  know  very  well  you  are  n't  being  left  to 
shift  for  yourself.  You  '11  be  provided  for  better 
than  you  've  ever  been.  Why,  all  you  '11  have  to 
do—" 

"All  I  '11  hab  to  do  is  jes'  crawl  into  my  grave  en 
stay  dere.  I  done  raised  'im  fum  de  egg  up,  en  now 
he  's  got  comb  en  kin  crow  it  's  tail-feathers  over  de 
fence  en  fly  off  wid  'im !  Ah,  Lawd !  You  done 
made  'em  en  You  knows  whut  roosters  is  like ! ' ' 

"Emma!    Look  here,  confound  it! — " 

"Who  gwine  look  after  'im?  I  axes  you  fum  my 
heart,  who  gwine  do  it? —  Never  did  hab  no  mo' 
sense  dan  a  rabbit  widout  I  's  by,  en  now  dey  aims  to 
tun  'im  loose !  Ah,  Lawd ! ' ' 

"Emma,  listen!     Emma,  what  the — " 

"Dem  furrin  women  '11  do  'im  lak  dem  women 
done  po'  old  Cassius.  Dey  'II  conjure  'im!  En  wid- 
out I  by,  who  gwine  make  'im  put  one  live  frawg  on 
'is  nekked  stummick,  so  's  to  sweat  de  speret  o'  dat 


WHERE  THE  ROAD  DIVIDED          105 

frawg  een,  en  de  speret  o'  dat  conjure  out?  No- 
buddy.  Den  he  '11  up  en  die.  Widout  one  Gawd's 
soul  o'  'is  own  folkses  to  put  de  coppers  on  'is 
eyes  en'  tie  up  de  corpse's  jaws. — Ah  Lawd,  ah 
Lawd!" 

' '  Oh,  shut  up,  you  old  idiot !  I  'm  not  coming 
home  to  my  meals  any  more,  if  this  is  how  you  're 
going  to  behave ! ' '  This  from  Peter,  disgustedly. 

"Ain't  you,  suh?  All  right,  suh,  Mistuh  Champ- 
neys,  you  's  be  boss.  But  I  glad  to  my  Gawd  Miss 
Maria  ain  't  'yuh  to  see  dis  day ! ' '  And  Emma  began 
to  sniffle. 

Peter  pushed  his  untouched  dinner  aside,  and 
reached  for  his  hat.  He  looked  at  Emma  Campbell 
irefully. 

"Damn!"  exploded  Peter. 

Emma  Campbell  got  to  her  feet  with  astounding 
quickness,  ran  into  the  kitchen,  and  returned  in  a 
moment  with  another  platter  of  chicken,  rice,  and 
gravy. 

"  'Yuh,  chile.  Set  down  en  eat  yo'  bittles.  You 
ain't  called  on  to  hab  no  hard  feelin's  'bout  dis 
chicken.  'T  ain't  none  o'  ours,  nohow."  Peter  re- 
sumed his  chair  and  waived  cross-examination. 

Mr.  Champneys  having  come,  so  to  speak,  between 
dark  and  daylight,  Riverton  knew  nothing  about  his 
visit,  for  Peter  had  n  't  thought  to  inform  them. 
This  affair  seemed  so  unreal,  so  improbable,  so  up  in 
the  air,  that  he  dared  not  mention  it.  Suppose  it 
might  n 't  be  true,  after  all.  Suppose  fate  played  a 
cruel  joke.  Suppose  Mr.  Champneys  changed  his 


106  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

mind.  So  Peter,  who  had  a  horror  of  talk,  and 
writhed  when  asked  personal  questions  by  people 
who  felt  that  they  had  a  perfect  right  to  know  all 
about  his  business,  kept  strict  silence,  and  enjoined 
the  same  silence  upon  Emma  Campbell,  who  could  be 
trusted  to  hold  her  tongue  when  bidden. 

Now,  one  simply  cannot  remember  the  price  of  pots 
and  pans  and  sheet-iron  and  plows  and  ax-handles, 
when  one  is  living  in  the  beginning  of  an  astounding 
fairy  story,  when  the  most  momentous  change  is  im- 
pending, when  one's  whole  way  of  life  is  about  to  be 
diverted  into  different  channels.  The  things  one 
hates,  like  being  a  hardware  clerk,  for  instance,  auto- 
matically slide  into  the  background  when  the  desire 
of  the  heart  approaches. 

But  Mr.  Humphreys,  whose  mind  and  fortune  nat- 
urally enough  centered  in  his  hardware  store,  could  n't 
be  expected  to  know  that  the  impossible  had  happened 
for  Peter  Champneys.  He  would  hardly  be  able  to 
take  Peter's  bare  word  for  it,  even  if  Peter  should  tell 
him:  he  didn't  know  that  his  absent-minded  clerk 
really  liked  him,  and  longed  to  tell  him  that  he  was 
leaving  Riverton  shortly — he  hoped  for  years  and 
years — and  was  only  awaiting  the  message  that  should 
speed  his  departure.  Mr.  Humphreys,  then,  cannot 
be  blamed  for  complaining  with  feeling  and  pro- 
fanity that  of  all  the  damidjits  he  had  ever  seen  in 
his  life,  Peter  Champneys  was  about  the  worst. 
Loony  was  no  name  for  him,  and  what  was  to  become 
of  such  a  chump  he  didn't  know.  "If  this  thing 
keeps  up,  he  '11  be  drooling  before  he  's  forty,  and 


WHERE  THE  ROAD  DIVIDED          107 

we  '11  have  to  hire  a  nigger  to  feed  him  out  of  a  pap- 
spoon,"  said  Mr.  Humphreys,  forebodingly. 

And  in  the  meanwhile  the  days  dragged  and 
dragged — two  whole  weeks  of  suspense  and  expec- 
tancy. On  the  Monday  of  the  third  week  the  end  of 
Peter's  waiting  and  of  Mr.  Humphreys 's  patience 
came  together.  One,  in  fact,  brought  about  the  other. 
The  postman  who  drove  in  with  the  daily  mail  brought 
for  Peter  Champneys  the  yellow  envelope  toward 
which  he  had  been  looking  with  such  feverish  impa- 
tience. 

He  was  really  to  go !  The  young  man  experienced 
that  reeling,  ecstatic  shock  which  shakes  one  when  a 
long-delayed  desire  suddenly  assumes  reality.  He 
stood  with  the  telegram  in  his  fingers,  and  stared 
about  the  dusty,  dingy,  uninteresting  store,  and  saw 
as  with  new  eyes  how  hopelessly  hideous  it  really 
was;  and  wondered  and  wondered  if  he  were  really 
himself,  Peter  Champneys,  who  was  going  to  get  away 
from  it. 

At  that  moment  stout  old  Mrs.  Beach  entered  the 
store  and  waddled  up  to  him.  Mrs.  Beach  was  a 
woman  who  never  knew  what  she  really  wanted,  or  if, 
indeed,  she  really  wanted  anything  in  particular ;  but 
then  again,  as  she  said,  she  might.  She  didn't  like 
to  leave  her  house  often;  and  when  she  did  finally 
make  up  her  mind  to  dress  and  go  out,  she  popped  into 
every  store  she  happened  to  pass,  on  the  chance  that 
she  might  want  something  from  it,  and  would  thus 
save  herself  an  extra  trip  to  get  it.  She  would  say 
to  a  perspiring  clerk : 


108  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

"Now,  let  me  see:  there  's  something  I  wanted  to 
get  from  this  store.  I  know  it,  because  on  Tuesday 
last  something  happened  to  put  me  in  mind  of  it — 
or  was  it  Wednesday,  maybe  ?  I  know  it  's  something 
I  need  about  the  house — or  maybe  the  yard.  You  '11 
have  to  help  me  out.  I  've  got  a  poor  memory,  but 
you  just  sort  of  run  over  a  list  of  things  folks  would 
be  most  likely  to  need  and  maybe  you  '11  hit  on  the 
right  thing,  and  if  it  's  that  I  want,  I  '11  get  it  right 
now.  Don 't  stand  there  like  a  hitching-post,  boy ! 
Why  can't  you  suggest  something,  and  help  out  a 
woman  old  enough  to  be  your  mother?" 

If  by  some  fortuitous  chance  you  happened  to  hit 
upon  an  article  she  thought  she  might  happen  to  need, 
and  it  suited  her,  she  would  buy  it.  But  it  never  oc- 
curred to  her  to  thank  you  for  your  help,  or  to  apolo- 
gize for  the  nerve-racking  strain  to  which  she  sub- 
jected you. 

"Young  man,"  said  her  testy  voice  in  Peter's  ear, 
"I  've  got  to  get  something  and  I  can't  remember 
what  it  is.  You  've  got  to  help  me.  I  can't  be  wast- 
ing my  time  at  my  age  o'  life  running  around  to  hard- 
ware stores." 

Peter  thrust  the  miraculous  telegram  in  his  pocket, 
where  he  could  feel  it  burn  and  tingle.  Oh,  it  was 
true,  it  was  true!  He  was  going  to  get  away  from 
all  this! 

"For  heaven's  sake,  boy,  don't  stand  there  gawp- 
ing at  me  like  a  thunderstruck  owl!  You  surely 
know  about  everything  you  've  got  in  this  store,  don't 
you?  Well,  then,  Peter  Champneys,  look  about  you 


WHERE  THE  ROAD  DIVIDED          109 

and  see  if  you  can't  light  on  what  I  'm  most  likely  to 
need!" 

Peter,  mind  on  the  telegram  in  his  pocket,  did  in- 
deed look  at  the  old  lady  owlishly.  Hazily  he  remem- 
bered certain  grueling,  sweating  half-hours  spent  in 
trying  to  discover  what  Mrs.  Beach  thought  she  might 
want  to  buy.  Hazily  he  looked  from  her  to  the  lit- 
tered shelves,  and  reached  for  the  first  object  upon 
which  his  eyes  happened  to  fall. 

"Yes  'm,  Mrs.  Beach.  I  reckon  this  is  what  you  'd 
most  likely  need,"  said  Peter,  gently,  and  placed  in 
her  hand  a  fine  new  muzzle.  (Paris,  maybe  Rome; 
and  Florence !  Oh,  names  to  conjure  with !  And 
he  should  see  them  all,  walk  their  historic  streets, 
view  immortal  work,  stand  before  immortal  canvases, 
and  say  with  Correggio:  "And  I,  too,  am  a 
painter!") 

"Oh,  my  dear  Lord,  save  me  from  bursting  wide 
open !  "Why,  you  impudent  young  reprobate ! ' '  Mrs. 
Beach's  outraged  voice  banished  his  dream.  "For 
two  pins,  Peter  Champneys,  I  'd  take  you  across  my 
knees  and  spank  the  seat  off  your  breeches!  I  need 
a  muzzle,  do  I  ?  I  'm  to  be  insulted  by  a  little  squirt 
that  's  just  learning  to  keep  his  ears  clean !  Well ! 
Girl  and  woman  I  've  been  dealing  with  Sam  Hum- 
phreys and  his  father  before  him,  but  from  this 
day  forth  I  put  no  foot  of  mine  across  this  store 
door!"  All  the  while  she  spoke  she  brandished  the 
muzzle  at  Peter  and  kept  backing  him  off  into  a 
corner. 

Mr.  Humphreys  came  hurriedly  out  of  his  office 


110  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

upon  hearing  the  uproar,  and  sought  with  soothing 
speech  to  placate  his  irate  old  friend  and  customer. 
But  Mrs.  Beach  wasn't  to  be  placated.  She  went 
out  of  the  door  and  down  the  street  like  a  hat  on  a 
windy  day. 

Mr.  Humphreys  watched  her  go.  Then  he  turned 
and  looked  at  Peter  Champneys,  ominously: 

"Peter," — Mr.  Humphreys,  carefully  restraining 
himself,  spoke  in  low  and  dulcet  tones — "Peter,  I 
have  tried  to  do  my  duty  as  a  Christian  man;  now  I 
have  to  do  it  as  a  hardware  man,  and  right  here  is 
where  you  and  I  say  good-by.  I  have  passed  over," 
said  Mr.  Humphreys,  swallowing  hard,  "your  sending 
gravel  to  the  grocer  and  a  bellows  to  the  minister  by 
mistake;  but  this  is  the  limit.  If  there  is  anybody 
advertising  for  a  gilt-edged  failure  as  a  salesman,  you 
go  apply  for  the  job  and  say  I  recommend  you  en- 
thusiastically. I  hate  like  the  devil  to  fire  you,  Peter, 
but  it  's  a  plain  case  of  self-defense  with  me :  I  have  to 
do  it.  You  're  fired.  Now.  Come  on  in  the  office," 
said  Mr.  Humphreys,  eagerly, ' '  and  I  '11  pay  you  off. ' ' 

Peter  slid  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  pinched  that 
precious  slip  of  paper.  Then  he  smiled  into  Mr. 
Humphreys 's  empurpled  visage. 

' '  Why,  thank  you,  Mr.  Humphreys, ' '  said  he,  grate- 
fully. "I  know  just  how  you  feel,  and  I  don't  blame 
you  in  the  least.  I  Ve  been  wanting  to  tell  you  I  had 
to  quit,  and  you  've  saved  me  the  trouble." 

Sam  Humphreys  knew  that  Peter  Champneys  had 
no  right  to  stand  there  and  smile  like  that  at  such  a 
solemn  moment.  He  should  have  appeared  ashamed, 


WHERE  THE  ROAD  DIVIDED          111 

downcast,  humanly  perturbed;  and  he  didn't  in  the 
least. 

"I  've  been  wondering  ever  since  the  first  day  I 
hired  you  how  I  was  going  to  keep  from  firing  you 
before  nightfall.  Now  the  end  's  come.  Say — sup- 
pose you  go  on  home,  right  now.  Because,"  said  Mr. 
Humphreys,  softly,  "I  mightn't  be  able  to  refrain 
from  committing  justifiable  homicide.  I  '11  send  you 
your  salary  to-night.  Go  on  home.  Please !" 

To  his  horror,  Peter  Champneys  of  a  sudden 
laughed  aloud.  It  was  genuine  laughter,  that  rang 
true  and  gay  and  glad.  His  eyes  sparkled,  and  a  dash 
of  good  red  jumped  into  his  sallow  cheeks. 

"Good-by,  then,  Mr.  Humphreys.  And  thank  you 
for  many  kindnesses,  and  for  real  patience,"  said 
Peter.  He  waved  his  hand},  at  the  dusty  store  in  a 
wide-flung  gesture  of  glad  farewell. 

"Oh,  my  God!  He's  run  plumb  crazy!"  cried 
Mr.  Humphreys,  mopping  his  brow.  "I  always  said 
that  boy  was  n  't  natural ! ' ' 

But  Peter,  walking  home  in  the  bright  afternoon 
sunlight,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  felt  young  and 
free  and  happy.  He  wanted  to  laugh,  to  sing,  to 
shout,  to  skip.  Emma  Campbell  was  just  bringing 
the  washed-and-dried  dinner  dishes  back  into  the  din- 
ing-room when  he  bounced  in. 

"Emma,"  said  he,  sticking  his  thumbs  into  the 
armholes  of  his  waistcoat,  and  beaming  at  her, 
"Emma,  I  'm  out  of  a  job.  Kicked  out  neck  and 
crop.  Fired,  thank  God!" 

Emma  stacked  her  dishes  on  the  old  deal  dresser. 


112  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

"Is  you?" 

"I  sure  am.  And,  Emma,  listen.  I — I  'm  sort  of 
waked  up.  Even  if  things  should  n  't  turn  out  as  I 
hope  they  will,  I  '11  manage  to  go  ahead,  somehow. 
I  'd  get  out,  now,  under  any  circumstances.  Pike's 
Peak  or  bust ! ' '  said  Peter. 

"When  you  'speck  to  go?" 

"Just  as  soon  as  I  can  get  out.  I  'm  expected  in 
New  York  within  ten  days  at  the  latest.  And  then, 
Emma,  the  wide  world !  No  more  little-town  tittle- 
tattle!  All  I  've  got  to  do,  in  the  big  world,  is  to 
deliver  the  goods.  And  I  'm  going  to  deliver  the 
goods!"  said  Peter. 

But  Emma  Campbell  put  her  grizzled  head  on  the 
dining-room  table  and  began  to  cry. 

"I  nussed  you  w'en  you  had  de  croup  en  de  colic. 
I  used  to  tromp  up  en  down  dis  same  flo'  wid  you 
'crost  my  shoulder.  It  was  me  dressed  Miss  Maria  de 
day  she  married  wid  yo'  pa,  en  it  was  me  dressed  'er 
for  de  coffin.  You  en  me  been  stannin'  togedder 
ever  sence.  How  I  gwine  stan'  by  my  alonese'f  now? 
I  ole  now,  Mist'  Peter." 

"Emma,"  said  Peter,  after  a  pause,  "tell  me  ex- 
actly what  you  want  me  to  do  for  you  and  if  I  can 
I  '11  do  it. 

"I  wants  to  go  wid  you.  I  jes'  natchelly  ain't 
gwine  stay  'yuh  by  my  alonese'f,"  wept  Emma. 

Peter  looked  at  her  with  the  sort  of  tenderness  one 
must  be  born  in  the  South  to  understand.  Born  in 
the  last  years  of  slavery,  brought  up  in  wild  Recon- 


WHERE  THE  ROAD  DIVIDED          113 

struction  days,  Emma  couldn't  read  or  write.  She 
wasn't  amenable  to  discipline.  She  was,  as  Cassius 
had  complained,  ' '  so  contrary  she  mus '  be  'flicted  wid 
de  moonness."  She  wore  a  rabbit  foot  and  a  conjure 
bag  and  believed  in  ha'nts  and  hoodoos.  But,  as  far 
back  as  he  could  remember,  Emma  Campbell  had 
formed  a  large  part  of  the  background  of  his  life. 
He  wondered  just  what  he  would  have  done  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  Emma,  after  his  mother's  death. 
There  slid  into  his  mind  the  picture  of  a  shabby 
youngster  weeping  over  a  cheap  green-and-gold  Col- 
lection of  Poetic  Gems;  and  he  reached  over  and  laid 
a  brown  hand  upon  a  black  one. 

"Well,  and  why  not?"  mused  Peter.  "You  stood 
by  me  when  I  hadn't  any  money;  why  should  you 
leave  me  the  minute  I  get  it  ?  But  are  you  sure  you 
really  want  to  go  along,  Emma?  I  'm  going  into  a 
foreign  country,  remember.  You  won't  be  able  to 
understand  a  word  anybody  says.  You  '11  be  a 
mighty  lonesome  old  nigger  over  there." 

"I  can  talk  wid  my  cat,  can't  I?" 

"Holy  Moses!  What,  the  cat,  too?"  Peter  ran 
his  hands  through  his  hair,  distractedly. 

"Whah  you  goes,  I  goes.  En  whah  I  goes,  dat  cat 
goes.  Dat  cat  's  we-all's  folks." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Peter,  resignedly.  After  all, 
Emma  Campbell  and  the  cat  were  all  the  folks  he  had. 

He  went  to  Charleston  the  next  morning,  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  instructions  his  uncle  had  given  him 
in  their  last  talk,  and  the  bank  at  which  he  presented 


114  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

himself  treated  him  with  distinguished  consideration. 
Peter  heard  for  the  first  time  the  dulcet  accents  of 
Money. 

Like  Mr.  Wilfer  in  "Our  Mutual  Friend,"  Peter 
had  never  had  everything  all  together  all  at  once. 
When  he  had  a  suit  his  shoes  were  shabby,  and  when 
it  got  around  to  shoes  his  coat  was  shiny  in  the  seams 
and  his  hat  of  last  year's  vintage.  He  was  boyishly 
delighted  to  buy  at  one  time  all  that  he  wanted,  but 
as  made-to-order  clothes  were  altogether  outside  of 
his  reckoning  as  yet,  he  bought  ready-made.  His  taste 
was  too  simple  to  be  essentially  bad,  but  you  knew  he 
was  a  country  boy  in  store  clothes  and  a  made  tie. 

He  had  never  been  in  Charleston  before,  and  he 
reveled  in  the  ineluctable  charm  of  the  lovely  old 
town.  No  South  Carolinian  is  ever  disappointed  in 
Charleston.  Peter  thought  the  city  resembled  one  of 
her  own  old  ladies,  a  dear  dignified  gentlewoman  in 
reduced  circumstances,  in  a  worn  silk  gown  and  a 
mended  lace  cap  and  a  cameo  brooch.  It  might  be 
against  the  old  gentlewoman's  religious  convictions  to 
bestow  undue  care  upon  her  personal  appearance, 
but  hers  was  a  venerable,  unforgetable,  and  most 
beautiful  old  face  for  all  that,  and  perhaps  because 
of  it.  She  knew  that  the  kingdom  of  God  is  within ; 
and  being  sure  of  that,  she  was  sure  of  herself,  serene, 
unpainted,  unpretentious. 

Peter  wandered  by  old  walled  gardens  in  which 
were  set  wrought-iron  gates  that  allowed  the  passer-by 
a  glimpse  of  greenery  and  flowers,  but  prevented  en- 
croachments upon  family  privacy.  Every  now  and 


WHEEE  THE  ROAD  DIVIDED          115 

then  a  curving  balustrade,  a  gable,  a  window,  or  an 
old  doorway  of  surpassing  charm  made  his  fingers 
itch  for  pencil  and  paper.  He  reflected,  without  bit- 
terness, that  the  doors  of  every  one  of  these  fine  old 
houses  had  on  a  time  opened  almost  automatically  to 
a  Champneys.  Some  of  these  folk  were  kith  and  kin, 
as  his  mother  had  remembered  and  they,  perhaps,  had 
forgotten.  This  didn't  worry  him  in  the  least:  the 
real  interest  the  houses  had  for  Peter  was  that  this 
one  had  a  picturesque  garden  gate,  that  one  a  door 
with  a  fan-light  he  'd  like  to  sketch. 

He  climbed  St.  Michael's  belfry  stairway  and 
looked  over  the  city,  and  toward  the  sea ;  and  later 
wandered  through  its  historic  churchyard.  One  very 
simple  memorial  held  him  longest,  because  it  is  the 
only  one  of  its  kind  among  all  those  records  of  state 
honor  and  family  pride,  and  seems  rather  to  belong 
to  the  antique  Greek  and  Roman  world  which  ac- 
cepted death  as  the  final  fact,  than  to  a  Carolina 
churchyard. 

SARAH  JOHNSTON 
born  in  this  province 

29th  May  1690 

Died  26th  April  1774 

In  the  84th  year  of  her  age. 

How  lovd  how  valu'd  once  avails  Thee  not 
To  whom  related  or  by  whom  begot 
A  heap  of  dust  alone  remains  of  Thee. 

That  covered  the  Champneyses,  too.  To  whom  re- 
lated or  by  whom  begot,  a  heap  of  dust  alone  re- 
mained of  them.  So  much  for  all  human  pride! 


116  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

Peter  left  St.  Michael's  dead  to  slumber  in  peace,  and 
walked  for  an  hour  on  the  Battery,  and  in  Legare 
Street,  where  life  is  brightest  in  the  old  city.  All 
good  Charlestonians  think  that  after  the  final  resur- 
rection there  may  be  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth 
for  others,  but  for  themselves  a  house  in  Legare  Street 
or  on  the  Battery. 

Peter  presently  reappeared  in  Riverton,  discreetly 
clad  in  his  customary  clothes,  the  habits  of  thrift 
being  yet  so  firmly  ingrained  in  him  that  he  could  n't 
easily  wear  his  best  clothes  on  a  week-day. 

"Peter!  You  Peter  Champneys!  Look  here  a 
minute,  will  you  ? ' '  Mrs.  Beach  called,  as  he  was  pass- 
ing her  house. 

Peter  stopped.  His  smiling  countenance  somewhat 
astonished  Mrs.  Beach. 

"Peter,  I  've  heard  about  Sam  Humphreys  firing 
you  on  account  of  me  getting  mad  at  you  about  that 
muzzle.  Now,  while  I  know  in  my  heart  you  'd  have 
been  fired  about  something  or  other,  sooner  or  later, 
I  do  wish  to  my  Lord  it  hadn't  been  on  account  of 
me.  Not  that  I  don't  think  you  're  an  impudent 
young  rapscallion,  that  never  sets  his  nose  inside  a 
church  door,  and  insults  old  women  with  muzzles. 
But  I  knew  your  mother  well,  and  I  wish  it  wasn't 
on  account  of  me  Sam  Humphreys  discharged  you." 
There  was  real  feeling  in  the  testy  old  lady's  face 
and  voice. 

"Don't  you  bother  your  head  about  it  one  minute 
more,  Mrs.  Beach.  All  I  'm  sorry  for  is  that  I  ap- 
peared to  be  impertinent  to  you,  when  I  had  n  't  any 


WHERE  THE  ROAD  DIVIDED          117 

such  notion.  I  was  thinking  about  something  else  at 
the  time.  So  you  '11  just  have  to  forgive  me." 

"I  do,"  said  the  old  lady,  mollified.  After  all, 
Maria  Champneys's  boy  couldn't  be  altogether  tri- 
fling !  ' '  Is  what  I  hear  true,  that  you  're  going  away 
from  Riverton?  Folks  say  you  've  got  a  job  in  the 
city." 

"Yes  'm,  I  'm  going  away." 

"I  reckon  it 's  just  as  well.  You  '11  do  better  away 
from  Riverton.  You  '11  have  to." 

"Yes  'm,  I  '11  have  to,"  agreed  Peter.  He  held 
out  his  hand,  and  the  old  lady  found  herself  wringing 
it,  and  wishing  him  good  luck. 

At  home  he  found  Emma  Campbell  carefully  pack- 
ing up  all  the  worthless  plunder  it  had  taken  her 
many  years  to  collect.  When  he  had  heartlessly  re- 
jected all  she  didn't  need,  she  had  one  small  trunk 
and  a  venerable  carpet-bag.  Everything  else  was 
nailed  up.  The  house  itself  was  to  be  looked  after 
by  the  town  marshal,  who  was  also  the  town  real- 
estate  agent.  Peter  was  very  vague  as  to  his  return. 

No  railroad  runs  through  Riverton,  but  the  river 
steamers  come  and  go  daily,  the  town  usually  quitting 
work  to  foregather  at  the  pier  to  welcome  coming  and 
speed  departing  travelers.  All  Riverton  made  it  a 
point  to  be  on  hand  the  morning  Peter  Champneys 
left  home  to  seek  his  fortune. 

Peter  never  did  anything  like  anybody  else.  There 
was  always  some  diverting  bit  of  individual  lunacy 
to  make  his  proceedings  interesting.  This  morning 
Riverton  discovered  that  Emma  Campbell  was  going 


118  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

away,  too.  Emma  appeared  in  a  black  cashmere 
dress,  a  blue-and-white  checked  gingham  apron  on 
which  a  basket  of  flowers  was  embroidered  in  red 
cross-stitch,  and  a  white  bandana  handkerchief  wound 
around  her  head  under  a  respectable  black  sailor  hat. 
She  carried  a  large,  square  cage  that  had  once  housed 
a  mocking-bird,  and  now  held  the  Champneys  big 
black  cat.  Laughter  and  delighted  comments  greeted 
the  bird-cage,  and  her  carpet-bag  received  almost  as 
much  attention  and  applause.  Riverton  hadn't  seen 
a  bag  like  that  since  Reconstruction,  and  it  made  the 
most  of  its  opportunity. 

"Emma!  Aren't  you  afraid  you'll  let  the  cat 
out  of  the  bag?" 

Emma  remained  haughtily  silent. 

"Emma,  where  you-all  goin'?" 

"We-all  gwine  whah  we  gwine,  dat  's  whah  we 
gwine."  This  from  Emma,  succinctly. 

"What  you  goin'  to  do  when  you  get  there?"  per- 
sisted the  wag. 

"Who,  us?  We  gwine  do  whut  you-all  ain't  know 
how  to  do:  we  gwine  min'  our  own  business,"  said 
Emma,  politely. 

"Good-by,  Peter!  Don't  set  the  world  on  fire,  old 
scout ! ' ' 

When  the  boat  turned  the  bend  in  the  river  that 
hid  the  small  town  of  his  birth  from  his  view,  Peter 
felt  shaken  as  he  had  never  thought  to  be.  Good-by, 
little  home  town,  where  the  slings  and  arrows  of  out- 
rageous fortune  had  rained  upon  him ! 

The  boat  swung  into  a  side  channel  to  escape  a 


WHERE  THE  ROAD  DIVIDED          119 

sand-bar.  She  was  in  deep  water,  but  very  close  to 
the  shore,  so  close  that  he  could  see  the  leaves  on  the 
trees  quivering  and  shimmering  in  the  river  breeze 
and  the  late  summer  sunlight.  Over  there,  as  the 
crow  flies,  lay  the  River  Swamp,  and  Neptune's  gray, 
deserted  cabin.  They  had  been  his  refuge.  No  other 
place,  no  other  woods  in  all  the  world  could  quite  take 
their  place,  or  be  like  them.  And  he  knew  there 
would  be  many  a  day  when  he  must  ache  with  home- 
sick longing  for  the  coast  country,  for  the  tide-water, 
and  the  jessamines,  and  the  moon  above  the  pines,  and 
the  scent  of  the  bay  in  flower  on  summer  nights.  The 
world  was  opening  her  wide  spaces.  But  the  Caro- 
lina coast  was  home. 

"I  wish,"  said  Peter,  and  his  chin  quivered,  "I 
wish  there  were  some  one  thing  that  typified  you, 
something  of  you  I  could  take  with  me  wherever  I  go. 
I  wish  you  had  a  spirit  I  could  see,  and  know." 

Out  from  the  shore-line,  where  the  earliest  golden- 
rod  was  just  beginning  to  show  that  it  intended  to 
blossom  by  and  by,  and  the  ironweed  was  purple,  and 
the  wild  carrot  was  white  and  lacy,  and  the  orange- 
red  milkweed  was  about  ready  to  close  her  house  for 
the  season,  came  fluttering  with  a  quick,  bold  sureness 
the  gallantest  craft  of  all  the  fairy  sail-boats  of  the 
sky,  hovered  for  a  bright  second  over  the  steamer's 
rail,  and  scudded  for  the  other  shore. 

Peter  Champneys  straightened  his  shoulders. 
Youth  and  courage  and  hope  flashed  into  his  wistful 
face,  and  brightened  his  eyes  that  followed  the  Red 
Admiral. 


CHAPTEB  VIII 

CINDERELLA 

IT  wasn't  a  pleasant  house,  being  of  a  dingy, 
bilious-yellow  complexion,  with  narrow  window 
eyes,  and  a  mean  slit  of  a  doorway  for  a  mouth ; 
not  sinister,  but  common,  stupid,  and  uninteresting. 
If  one  should  happen  to  be  a  house-psychologist,  one 
would  know  that  behind  the  Nottingham  lace  cur- 
tains looped  back  with  soiled  red  ribbons,  was  all  the 
tawdry,  horrible  junk  that  clutters  such  houses,  even 
as  mental  junk  clutters  the  minds  of  the  people  who 
have  to  live  in  them.  One  knew  that  the  people  who 
dwelt  in  that  house  didn't  know  how  to  live,  how  to 
think,  or  how  to  cook;  and  that  if  by  any  chance  a 
larger  life,  a  real  thought,  or  a  bit  of  good  cooking 
confronted  them,  they  would  probably  reject  it  with 
suspicion. 

The  elderly  gentleman  in  white  linen  who  made 
acquaintance  with  this  particular  house  on  a  very 
sultry  noon  in  early  August,  hesitated  before  he 
rang  the  bell.  He  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  the 
hot,  dusty  street  where  a  swarm  of  hot,  dusty  children 
were  shrilling  and  shrieking,  or  staring  at  him  round- 
eyed,  dived  into  his  pockets,  fished  up  a  handful  of 
small  change,  whistled  to  insure  their  greater  atten- 

120 


CINDERELLA  121 

tion,  and  flung  the  coin  among  them.  While  they 
were  snatching  at  the  money  like  a  flock  of  pigeons 
over  a  handful  of  grain,  the  elderly  gentleman  rang 
the  bell.  He  could  hear  it  jangling  through  the  house, 
but  it  brought  no  immediate  response.  After  a  decent 
interval  he  rang  again.  This  time  the  door  was  jerked 
open,  and  a  girl  in  a  bungalow  apron,  upon  which  she 
was  wiping  her  hands,  confronted  him.  She  was  a 
very  young  girl,  a  very  hot,  tired,  perspiring,  and 
sullen  girl,  fresh  from  a  broiling  kitchen  and  a  red- 
hot  stove. 

She  looked  at  the  caller  suspiciously,  her  glance 
racing  over  his  linen  suit,  his  white  shoes,  the  Panama 
hat  in  his  hand.  She  was  puzzled,  for  plainly  this 
wasn't  the  usual  applicant  for  board  and  lodging. 
Perhaps,  then,  he  was  a  successful  house-to-house 
agent  for  some  indispensable  necessity — say  an  ice- 
pick that  would  pull  nails,  open  a  can,  and  peel  po- 
tatoes. Or  maybe  a  religious  book  agent.  She  rather 
suspected  him  of  wanting  to  sell  her  Biblical  Proph- 
ecies Elucidated  by  a  Chicago  Seer,  or  something  like 
that.  Or,  stay:  perhaps  he  was  a  church  scout  sent 
out  to  round  up  stray  souls.  Whatever  he  might  be, 
she  was  bitterly  resentful  of  having  been  taken  from 
the  thick  of  her  work  to  answer  his  ring.  She  was  n't 
interested  in  her  soul,  her  hot  and  tired  body  being 
a  much  more  immediate  concern.  Heaven  is  far  off, 
and  hell  has  no  terrors  and  less  interest  for  a  girl  im- 
mured in  a  red-hot  kitchen  in  a  Middle  Western  town 
in  the  dog-days. 

"If  it  's  a  Bible,  we  got  one.    If  it  's  sewin'-ma- 


122  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

chines,  we  ain't,  but  don't.  If  it  's  savin'  our  souls, 
we  belong  to  church  reg'lar  an'  ain't  interested.  If 
it  's  explainin'  God,  nothin'  doin'!  An'  if  it  's  tack- 
pullers  with  nail-files  an'  corkscrews  on  'em,  you  can 
save  your  breath,"  said  the  girl  rapidly,  in  a  heated 
voice,  and  with  a  half-dry  hand  on  the  door-knob. 

Mr.  Chadwick  Champneys's  long,  drooping  mus- 
tache came  up  under  his  nose,  and  his  bushy  eyebrows 
twitched. 

"I  am  not  trying  to  sell  anything,"  he  said  hur- 
riedly, in  order  to  prevent  her  from  shutting  the 
door  in  his  face,  which  was  her  evident  intention. 

She  said  impatiently:  "If  you  're  collecting  this 
ain't  our  day  for  payin',  an'  you  got  to  call  again. 
Come  next  week,  on  Tuesday.  Or  maybe  "Wednesday 
or  Thursday  or  Friday  or  Sattiday."  The  door  be- 
gan to  close. 

He  inserted  a  desperate  foot. 

"I  wish  to  see  Miss  Simms — Miss  Anne,  or  Nancy 
Simms.  My  information  is  that  she  lives  in  this 
house.  I  should  have  stated  my  errand  at  once,  had 
I  been  allowed  to  do  so."  He  looked  at  the  girl  re- 
provingly. 

Before  she  could  reply,  a  female  voice  from  a  back 
region  rose  stridently: 

"Nancy!  You  Nancy!  What  in  creation  you 
mean,  gassin'  this  hour  o'  day  when  them  biscuits 
is  burnin'  up  in  the  oven?  Send  that  feller  about 
his  business,  whatever  it  is,  and  you  come  tend  to 
yours ! ' ' 

The  girl  hesitated,  and  frowned. 


CINDERELLA  123 

"If  you  come  to  see  Anne  Simms,  same  as  Nancy 
Simms,  I  'm  her — I  mean,  she  's  me,"  said  she,  hur- 
riedly. "I  got  no  time  to  talk  with  you  now,  Mister, 
but  you  can  wait  in  the  parlor  until  I  dish  up  dinner, 
and  whilst  they  're  eatin'  I  '11  have  time  to  run  up 
and  see  what  you  want.  Is  it  partic  'ler  ? ' ' 

"Very." 

"Come  on  in  an'  wait,  then." 

' '  Nancy !  You  want  I  should  come  up  there  after 
you?  Oh,  my  stars,  an'  that  girl  knows  how  par- 
tic 'ler  Poppa  is  about  his  biscuits;  they  gotta  be  jest 
so  or  he  won't  look  at  'em,  an'  her  gassin'  and  him 
likely  to  raise  the  roof!"  screamed  the  voice. 

' '  Oh,  shut  up !  I  'm  comin ', ' '  bawled  the  girl  in 
reply.  "You  better  sit  over  there  by  the  winder, 
Mister,"  she  told  her  visitor,  hastily.  "There  's  a 
breeze  there,  maybe.  You  '11  find  to-day's  paper  an' 
a  fan  on  the  table."  She  vanished,  and  he  could  hear 
her  running  kitchenward,  and  the  shrieking  voice 
subsiding  into  a  whine. 

Mr.  Chadwick  Champneys  slumped  limply  into  a 
chair.  Everything  he  looked  at  added  to  his  sense  of 
astonishment  and  unease. 

The  outside  of  the  house  hadn't  lied:  the  inside 
matched  it.  Mr.  Champneys  found  himself  staring 
and  being  stared  at  by  the  usual  crayon  portraits  of 
defunct  members  of  the  family, — at  least  he  hoped 
they  were  defunct, — the  man  with  a  long  mule  face 
and  neck  whiskers ;  and  opposite  him  his  spouse,  with 
her  hair  worn  like  mustard-plasters  on  the  skull. 
"Male  and  female  created  He  them."  Placed  so  that 


124  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

you  had  to  see  it  the  moment  you  entered  the  door, 
on  a  white-and-gold  easel  draped  with  a  silkoline  scarf 
trimmed  with  pink  crocheted  wheels,  was  a  virulently 
colored  landscape  with  a  house  of  unknown  archi- 
tecture in  the  foreground,  and  mother-of-pearl  pud- 
dles outside  the  gate.  Mr.  Champneys  studied  those 
mother-of-pearl  puddles  gravely.  They  hurt  his  feel- 
ings. So  did  the  ornate  golden-oak  parlor  set  up- 
holstered in  red  plush;  and  the  rug  on  the  floor,  in 
which  colors  fought  like  Kilkenny  cats;  and  a  pink 
vase  with  large  purple  plums  bunched  on  it ;  and  the 
figured  wall-paper,  and  the  unclean  lace  curtains,  and 
the  mantel  loaded  with  sorry  plunder,  and  the  clothes- 
pin butterflies,  the  tissue-paper  parasols,  and  the 
cheap  fans  tacked  to  the  walls.  It  was  a  hot  and 
dusty  room.  The  smell  of  bad  cooking,  of  countless 
miserable  meals  eaten  by  men  whose  digestion  they 
would  ruin,  clung  to  it  and  would  not  be  gainsaid. 
Mr.  Champneys  thought  the  best  thing  that  could 
happen  to  such  houses  would  be  a  fire  beginning  in 
the  cellar  and  ending  at  the  roof. 

His  mind  went  back  to  another  house — an  old 
white  house  in  South  Carolina,  set  in  spacious 
grounds,  with  high-ceilinged,  cool,  large  rooms  filled 
with  fine  old  furniture,  a  few  pictures,  glimpses  of 
brass  and  silver,  large  windows  opening  upon  lawns 
and  trees  and  shrubs  and  flowers,  a  flash  of  blue  river, 
a  vista  of  green  marshes  melting  into  the  cobalt  sky. 
A  stately,  lovely,  leisurely  old  house,  typifying  the 
stately,  leisurely  life  that  had  called  it  into  being; 
both  gone  irrevocably  into  the  past.  He  sighed. 


CINDERELLA  125 

He  looked  about  this  atrocious  room,  and  his  jaw 
hardened.  This,  for  Milly  's  niece !  Poor  girl,  poor 
friendless  girl!  He  had  known,  of  course,  that  the 
girl  was  poor.  He  and  Milly  had  been  poor,  too. 
But,  oh,  never  like  this!  This  was  being  poor  sor- 
didly, vulgarly.  He  had  seen  and  suffered  enough  in 
his  time  to  realize  how  soul-murdering  this  environ- 
ment might  be  to  one  who  knew  nothing  better.  He 
himself  had  had  the  memory  of  the  old  house  in  which 
he  was  born,  and  of  low-voiced,  gentle-mannered  men 
and  women;  he  had  had  his  fine  traditions  to  which 
to  hold  fast.  He  reflected  that  he  would  have  a  great 
deal  to  make  up  for  to  Nancy  Simms ! 

The  noon  whistle  had  blown.  People  had  begun  to 
come  in,  men  whose  first  movement  on  entering  was 
to  peel  off  collars  and  coats.  They  barely  glanced  at 
the  quiet,  white-clad  figure  as  they  passed  the  open 
parlor  door,  but  stampeded  for  the  basement  dining- 
room.  Mr.  Champneys  could  hear  the  scraping  of 
chairs,  the  rattling  of  dishes,  the  hum  of  loud  conver- 
sation; then  the  steady  clatter  of  knives  and  forks, 
and  a  dull,  subdued  murmur.  Dinner  was  in  full 
swing,  a  dinner  of  which  boiled  cabbage  must  have 
formed  the  piece  de  resistance. 

Came  a  hurried  footstep,  and  Nancy  Simms  entered 
the  room.  He  was  sitting  with  his  back  to  the  win- 
dow; she  sank  into  the  chair  fronting  him,  so  that 
the  light  fell  full  upon  her. 

She  was  strong  and  well-muscled,  as  one  could  see 
under  the  enveloping  apron.  Her  hands  bore  the 
marks  of  dish-washing  and  clothes-washing  and  floor- 


126  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

scrubbing  and  sweeping.  They  were  shapely  enough 
hands,  even  if  red  and  calloused.  The  foot  in  the 
worn,  down-at-the-heels  shoe  was  a  good  foot,  with  a 
fine  arch;  and  the  throat  rising  from  the  checked 
gingham  apron  was  full  and  strong;  her  face  was 
prettily  shaped,  if  one  was  observant  enough  to  no- 
tice that  detail. 

She  was  not  pretty;  not  even  pleasant.  Her  dis- 
contented face  was  liberally  peppered  with  the  sort 
of  freckles  that  accompany  red  and  rebellious  hair; 
her  mouth  was  hard,  the  lips  pressed  tightly  together. 
Under  dark,  uncared-for  eyebrows  were  grayish- 
green  eyes,  their  expression  made  unfriendly  by  her 
habit  of  narrowing  them.  She  had  good  teeth  and  a 
round  chin,  and  her  nose  would  have  passed  muster 
anywhere,  save  for  the  fact  that  it,  too,  was  freckled. 
Unfortunately,  one  didn't  have  time  to  admire  her 
good  points;  one  said  at  first  sight  of  her,  "Good 
heavens,  what  a  disagreeable  girl ! ' '  And  then : 
"Bless  me,  I  've  never  seen  so  many  perfectly  un- 
necessary freckles  and  so  much  fighting-red  hair  on 
one  girl!" 

"You  '11  hafta  hurry,"  she  admonished  him,  fan- 
ning herself  vigorously  with  a  folded  newspaper. 
She  wiped  her  perspiring  face  on  her  arm,  tilted 
back  her  chair,  revealing  undarned  stockings,  and 
waited  for  him  to  explain  himself. 

He  handed  her  his  card,  and  at  the  name  Champ- 
neys  a  faint  interest  showed  in  her  face. 

"I  had  a  aunt  married  a  feller  by  that  name,"  she 
volunteered.  "Was  you  wishin'  to  find  out  somethin' 


CINDERELLA  127 

about  him  or  Aunt  Milly?  Because  if  so  I  don't 
know  nothin'  about  him,  nor  yet  her.  I  never  set 
eyes  on  neither  of  'em." 

"I  am  your  Aunt  Milly 's  husband,"  he  told  her. 
"And  I  have  come  to  find  out  something  about  you." 

"It  's  took  you  a  long  time  to  find  your  way,  ain't 
it?"  Her  manner  was  not  cordial. 

"We  will  waive  that,"  said  he,  composedly.  "I 
am  here,  and  my  visit  concerns  yourself.  To  begin 
with,  do  you  like  living  with  your  mother's  step- 
sister? That  is  her  relationship  to  your  mother  and 
to  my  wife,  I  believe?" 

"No:  I  don't  like  livin'  with  no  step-aunt,  though 
she  ain't  that,  bein'  further  off  an'  no  real  kin. 
If  you  want  to  know  why  I  don't  like  it,  it  's  all 
work  an'  no  pay,  that  's  why.  First  off,  when  I  was 
too  little  to  do  anything  else,  I  minded  the  children 
an'  run  errands  an'  washed  doilies  an'  towels  an' 
stockin's  an'  sich,  an'  set  table  an'  cleared  table  an' 
washed  dishes  an'  made  beds  an'  emptied  slops.  Then 
I  helped  cook.  Now  I  cook.  Along  with  plenty  other 
things.  How  'd  you  like  it  yourself?"  Her  tone 
was  suddenly  fierce.  The  fierceness  of  a  strong  and 
young  creature  in  galling  captivity. 

His  wandering  life  had  given  him  an  insight  into 
such  conditions  and  situations;  and  once  or  twice  he 
had  seen  orphan  children  raised  in  homes  where  they 
"helped  out."  Chattel  slavery. is  easier  by  compari- 
son and  pleasanter  in  reality. 

Before  he  could  answer,  "Nan-cy!  You  Nan-cy! 
Come  on  here  an'  set  them  pie-plates!  My  Gawd! 


128  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

that  girl  's  goin'  to  run  me  ravin'  crazy,  tryin'  to 
keep  her  on  her  job !  Nancy !" 

Nancy  looked  at  Mr.  Champneys  speculatively. 

"Is  what  you  got  to  say  worth  me  tellin'  her  to 
set  them  plates  herself?"  she  asked. 

"Well  worth  it,"  said  Mr.  Champneys,  emphat- 
ically. 

She  jumped  for  the  door  with  cat-like  quickness. 
Also,  she  lifted  her  voice  with  cat-like  ferocity. 

"I  'm  busy!    I  can't  co-ome.     Set  'em  yourself!" 

"Can't  come?  "What  you  doin'?"  shrieked  the 
other  voice. 

"I  'm  entertainin'  comp'ny  in  the  parler,  that  's 
what  I'm  doin'!  It's  somebody  come  to  see  me. 
An'  I  'm  goin'  to  wait  right  here  till  I  find  out  what 
they  come  for!" 

On  the  heels  of  that,  Nancy  slammed  the  parlor 
door,  and  sat  down. 

"Now  say  what  you  got  to  say,  an'  don't  waste  no 
time  askin'  if  I  'm  stuck  on  livin'  here  with  somethin' 
like  that!" 

' '  You  wish,  then,  to  leave  your  aunt  1 ' ' 

"She  ain't  no  aunt  of  mine,  I  tell  you.  She  ain't 
nothin'  but  my  mother's  stepfather's  daughter  by  his 
first  wife.  Sure  I  want  to  leave  her.  She  took  me  be- 
cause she  needed  a  servant  she  didn't  have  to  pay 
reg'lar  wages  to.  I  don't  owe  her  nothin'.  Nor  him, 
neither.  He  's  worse  'n  her." 

"They  are  not  kind  to  you?" 

"No,  they  ain't  what  you  'd  call  kind  to  me.  But 
you  ain't  come  here  to  talk  about  them,  I  take  it. 


CINDERELLA  129 

"What  was  you  wantin'  to  see  me  about,  Mister?" 

"Suppose,"  said  he,  leaning  forward,  "that  you 
should  be  offered,  in  exchange  for  this"  his  gesture 
damned  the  whole  room,  "a  beautiful  home,  travel, 
culture,  ease,  all  that  makes  life  beautiful ;  would  that 
offer  appeal  to  you?"  He  looked  at  her  earnestly. 

"No  housework,  no  cooking?  Clothes  made  for 
me  especial?  Not  hand-me-downs  an'  left-overs? 
No  kids  to  mind,  neither  day  nor  night?" 

"Housework?  Old  clothes?  Minding  children? 
Certainly  not !  I  am  not  hiring  a  servant !  What 
are  you  thinking  of?" 

"I  'm  thinkin'  of  me,  that  's  what  I  'm  thinkin'  of! 
I  'm  wearin'  her  old  clothes  on  Sundays  now.  I  hate 
'em.  They  look  like  her  an'  they  smell  like  her  and 
they  feel  like  her — mean  an'  ugly  an'  tight.  If  I 
could  ever  get  enough  money  o'  my  own  together,  an' 
enough  clothes — "  she  stopped,  and  looked  at  him 
with  the  sudden  ferocity  that  at  times  flashed  out  in 
her — "earned  honest,  though,  and  come  by  respec- 
table," said  she,  grimly,  "then  I  'd  get  out  o'  here 
an'  try  something  else.  I  'm  strong,  an'  if  I  had 
half  a  chanst  I  could  earn  my  livin '  easy  enough. ' ' 

His  jaw  hardened.  He  couldn't  blind  himself  to 
the  fact  that  he  was  disappointed  in  Milly's  niece;  so 
disappointed  that  he  felt  physically  sick.  Had  he 
been  less  fanatical,  less  obstinate,  less  fixed  upon  his 
monomaniacal  purpose,  he  would  have  settled  a  suffi- 
cient sum  upon  her,  and  gone  his  way.  His  disap- 
pointment, so  far  from  turning  him  aside,  hardened 
his  determination  to  carry  the  thing  through.  He  had 


130  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

so  acutely  felt  the  lack  of  money  himself,  that  now, 
perhaps,  he  overestimated  its  power.  Whatever 
money  could  accomplish  for  this  girl,  money  should 
do.  The  zeal  of  the  reformer  gathered  in  him. 

"I  wish,"  he  explained,  "to  adopt  you — in  a  sense. 
I  have  no  children,  and  it  is  my  desire  that  you  should 
bear  the  Champneys  name — for  your  Aunt  Milly's 
sake.  I  propose,  then,  to  take  you  away  from  these 
surroundings,  and  to  educate  you  as  a  lady  bearing 
the  name  of  Champneys  should  be  educated.  You  will 
have  to  study,  and  to  work  hard.  You  will  have  to 
obey  orders  instantly  and  implicitly.  Do  you  follow 
me?" 

"As  far  as  you  go,"  said  she,  cautiously.  "Go 
on:  I'm  waitin'  to  hear  more." 

"Aside  from  yourself,  I  have  but  one  close  rela- 
tive, my  brother's  son.  You  two,  then,  are  to  be  my 
children." 

"How  old  is  he?" 

"About  twenty." 

"But  if  you  got  a  real  heir,  where  do  I  come  in?" 
she  wondered. 

"Share  and  share  alike.  He  's  my  nephew:  you  're 
Milly's  niece." 

She  reflected,  a  puzzled  frown  coming  to  her  fore- 
head. 

"You  're  aimin'  to  give  us  both  a  whole  lot,  ain't 
you?  But  I  've  found  out  nobody  don't  get  somethin' 
for  nothin'  in  this  world.  Where  's  the  nigger  in  the 
woodpile  ?  What  do  I  do  for  what  I  get  ? " 

"You  make  yourself  worthy  of  the  name  you  are 


CINDERELLA  131 

to  bear.  You  place  yourself  unreservedly  in  the 
hands  of  those  appointed  to  instruct — and — ah — form 
you.  Make  no  mistake  on  this  head:  it  will  be  far 
from  easy  for  you." 

"Nothin'  's  ever  been  easy  for  me,  first  nor  yet 
last,"  said  Nancy  Simms.  "So  that  's  nothin'  new 
to  me.  I  want  you  should  speak  out  plain.  What 
you  really  mean  I  'm  to  do  ? " 

For  a  moment  the  iron-willed  old  man  hesitated; 
he  remembered  young  Peter,  eager,  hopeful,  crystal- 
clear  young  Peter,  back  there  in  South  Carolina.  He 
looked  challengingly  and  fiercely  at  the  girl,  as  if  his 
bold  will  meant  to  seize  upon  her  as  upon  a  piece  of 
clay  and  mold  it  to  his  desire.  Then, ' '  I  mean  you  're 
to  marry,"  he  said  crisply. 

' '  Me  ?    Who  to  ?    You  ? ' '  asked  Nancy,  blankly. 

"Me!"  gasped  Mr.  Champneys.  "Are  you  de- 
mented ? ' ' 

"Well,  then,  who?"  she  asked,  not  unnaturally. 
"And  why?" 

"The  other  heir.  My  nephew.  Peter  Champneys. 
Because  such  is  my  will  and  intention,"  said  he,  per- 
emptorily and  haughtily,  bending  his  eagle-look  upon 
her. 

' '  What  sort  of  a  feller  is  he  ?  He  ain  't  got  nothin ' 
the  matter  with  him,  has  he?" 

A  wild  desire  to  slap  Milly's  niece  came  upon  Chad- 
wick  Champneys  at  that. 

"He  is  my  nephew!"  he  said  haughtily.  "Why 
on  earth  should  he  have  anything  the  matter  with 
him?" 


132  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

It  occurred  to  him  then  that  it  might  n  't  be  such 
an  easy  matter  to  get  a  high-spirited  young  fellow, 
with  ideals,  to  take  on  trust  this  young  female  person 
with  the  red  hair.  He  felt  grateful  that  he  had 
exacted  a  promise  from  Peter.  The  Champneyses 
always  kept  their  promises. 

"I  'm  wonderin'!"  said  Nancy,  staring  at  him. 
""Why  are  you  so  bent  on  him  an'  me  marryin'? 
You  say  it  's  just  because  you  want  it,  but  that  ain't 
no  explanation,  nor  yet  no  reason.  After  all,  it  's 
me.  I  got  the  right  to  ask  why,  then,  ain't  I?  You 
can't  expect  to  walk  in  unbeknownst  an'  tell  a  girl 
you  want  she  should  marry  a  feller  she  's  never  laid 
eyes  on,  without  bein'  asked  a  few  questions,  can 
you?" 

He  knew  he  must  try  to  make  it  clear  to  her,  as  he 
had  tried  to  make  it  clear  to  Peter.  Peter,  being 
Peter,  had  presently  understood.  Whether  this  girl 
would  understand  remained  to  be  seen. 

"I  wish  you  to  marry,  because,  as  I  have  already 
told  you,  you  are  my  wife's  niece,  and  Peter  is  my 
brother's  son.  I  have  of  late  years  become  possessed 
of — well,  let  's  say  a  great  deal  of  money,  and  I  pro- 
pose that  this  money  shall  go  to  my  own  people — 
but  on  my  own  conditions.  These  conditions  being 
that  it  shall  all  be  kept  in  the  Champneys  name.  It 
is  an  old  name,  a  good  name,  it  was  once  a  wealthy 
and  an  honored  name.  It  must  be  made  so  again.  I 
say,  it  must  be  made  so  again!  There  are  but  you 
two  to  make  it  so.  The  boy  is  the  last,  on  my  side; 
and  you  're  Milly's.  Milly  must  have  her  share  in 


CINDERELLA  133 

the  upbuilding — as  if  you  were  her  child.  Now,  do 
you  see  ?  " 

"Good  Lord!  ain't  you  got  funny  notions,  though! 
Who  ever  heard  the  beat  ?  One  name  's  about  as  good 
as  another,  seems  to  me.  But  seein'  you  've  got  the 
money  to  pay  for  your  notions,  them  that  's  willin' 
to  take  your  money  ought  to  be  willin'  to  humor  'em." 
Nancy,  in  her  way,  had  what  might  be  called  a  sense 
of  ethics. 

"You  agree?" 

"Well,  I  just  got  to  make  a  change,  Mr.  Champneys. 
I  can't  stand  this  place  no  more.  If  I  was  to  say 
'No'  to  you,  an'  stay  here,  an'  have  time  to  think 
it  over,  down  in  that  sizzlin'  kitchen,  with  her 
squallin'  at  me  all  day,  I  'd  end  up  in  a  padded  cell. 
If  I  was  to  leave  just  so,  I  'd  maybe  get  me  a  job  in 
a  shop  at  less  than  I  could  live  on  honest.  You  see?" 

He  nodded,  and  she  went  on  somberly : 

"So  I  'm  most  at  the  end  of  my  tether.  It  's  real 
curious  you  should  come  just  now,  with  me  feelin' 
that  desperate  I  been  minded  to  walk  out  anyhow  an' 
risk  things.  You  sure  that  feller  ain't  got  nothin' 
ails  him  ?  Not  crazy,  nor  a  dope,  nor  nothin '  ?  " 

"My  nephew  is  perfectly  normal  in  every  respect," 
said  Mr.  Champneys,  frigidly. 

"What  's  he  look  like  in  the  face?"  she  demanded. 
"Is  he  as  ugly  as  me?" 

"He  is  a  gentleman,"  said  Peter's  uncle,  even  more 
frigidly.  "As  to  his  appearance,  I  believe  he  re- 
sembles me.  At  least,  he  looks  like  what  I  used  to 
look  like." 


134  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

"Well — I  've  seen  worse,"  said  she,  and  fetched  a 
sigh. 

A  sudden  thought  struck  him.  "Perhaps,"  he 
suggested,  making  allowance  for  the  sentimentality 
of  extreme  youth,  "perhaps  you  have  some  notion 
about — er — ah — marrying  for  love,  or  something  like 
that?  There  may  be  some  young  fellow  you  think 
you  fancy?  Young  people  in  your — ah — that  is,  in 
the  circumstances  to  which  you  unfortunately  have 
been  subjected,  often  rush  into  ill-considered  entangle- 
ments." 

"In  lovef  Who,  me?  Who  with,  for  Gawdsake? 
One  feller  means  just  as  much  to  me  as  another  feller : 
they  're  all  alike,"  said  she,  contemptuously.  "I 
just  asked  about  him  for — for  references.  You  know 
what  you  're  gettin',  an'  I  got  a  right  to  know  what 
I  'm  gettin'." 

"You  have:  so  please  remember  that  you  are  get- 
ting a  considerable  portion  of  the  Champneys  money 
for  doing  what  you  're  told  to  do,"  said  he. 

"I  never  knew  till  you  told  me  so  that  the  Champ- 
neyses  had  any  money.  But  if  it  's  there,  I  'm  will- 
ing to  do  what  I  'm  told,  for  my  share.  Why  not? 
There  ain't  nothin'  better  for  me,  nowheres,  nohow." 

"I  am  to  understand,  then,  that  you  agree?" 

' '  What  else  can  I  do  but  agree  ? ' '  she  asked,  twisting 
a  fold  of  her  apron. 

The  parlor  door  opened  with  violence;  a  thick-set 
man  with  a  bald  head  and  a  red  face,  followed  by 
a  shrewish,  thin  woman  with  pinched  lips,  appeared 
on  the  threshold. 


CINDERELLA  135 

"I  s'pose,"  said  the  woman,  with  elaborate  cour- 
tesy, "we  kin  come  in  our  own  parler,  Miss  Simms? 
Has  you  resigned  your  job  that  you  gotta  pick  out 
the  parler  to  set  in  whilst  I  'm  doin'  your  work  for 
you?" 

Nancy's  visitor  rose,  and  at  sight  of  the  tall  old 
gentleman  an  avid  curiosity  appeared  in  both  vulgar 
faces. 

"Mr.  Champneys,  this  is  the  lady  an'  gentleman 
I  live  with  and  work  for  without  wages,  Mister  an' 
Missis  Baxter.  Mister  an'  Missis  Baxter,  this  gen- 
tleman is  Aunt  Milly's  husband,  an'  he  's  come  to  see 
me;  an'  you  ain't  called  to  show  off  the  manners  you 
ain  't  got ! ' ' 

"Well,  why  couldn't  you  say  who  he  was  at  first, 
an'  have  done  with  it?"  grumbled  the  man.  "But 
no,  you  gotta  upset  the  whole  house!  She  's  the 
provokin'est  piece  o'  flesh  on  the  created  earth,  when 
she  starts,"  he  explained  to  the  visitor. 

"To  aggravate  an'  torment  them  that  's  raised  her 
an'  kept  her  out  of  the  asylum  an'  fed  an'  clothed  an' 
learned  her  like  a  daughter,  is  what  Nancy  Simms  'd 
rather  do  than  eat  an'  drink,"  supplemented  Mrs. 
Baxter,  acridly. 

Nancy  snorted.     Mr.  Champneys  said  nothing. 

' '  Well !  An '  so  you  're  poor  Milly  's  husband ! ' ' 
said  the  woman,  staring  at  him.  "You  wasn't  so 
awful  anxious  to  find  out  nothin'  about  her  kith  an' 
kin,  was  you?  Not  that  I  'm  any  kin,"  she  added, 
hastily.  "When  all  's  said  an'  done,  Nancy  ain't  no 
real  kin,  neither.  You  an'  her  's  only  connected  by 


136  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

marriage,  but  bein'  as  you  have  come  at  last,  I  hope 
she  '11  have  more  gratefulness  to  you  than  she  's  got 
for  me.  As  you  ain't  never  done  nothin'  by  her,  an' 
I  have,  she  's  sure  to." 

"You  make  me  so  sick!"  Nancy,  with  her  hands 
on  her  hips,  glared  at  the  pair.  "Anything  you  ever 
done  for  me  you  paid  yourself  for  double.  If  you 
don't  owe  me  nothin',  like  you  said  this  mornin',  I 
don't  owe  you  nothin',  neither,  so  it  's  quits.  You  'd 
oughta  be  glad  I  'm  goin'." 

"Goin'?  Who  's  goin'?  Goin'  where?"  Mrs. 
Baxter's  voice  rose  shrilly.  "Now,  ain't  it  always 
so?  You  take  a  orphan  child  to  your  bosom  an' 
after  many  days  it  '11  grow  up  like  a  viper,  an'  the 
minute  your  back  's  turned  it  '11  spit  in  your  face ! ' ' 

"Goin',  hey?  Where  you  goin'  to  when  you  go?" 
demanded  Mr.  Baxter,  hoarsely. 

' '  She  is  going  with  me, ' '  said  Mr.  Champneys.  The 
whole  situation  nauseated  him;  he  felt  that  if  he 
didn't  escape  from  that  red-plush  parlor  very  soon, 
he  was  going  to  be  violently  sick.  "I  am  now  in  a 
position  to  look  after  my  wife's  niece,  and  I  propose 
to  do  so.  From  what  I  have  heard  from  you  both,  I 
should  think  you  would  be  rather  glad  than  sorry  to 
part  with  her." 

"You  won't  gain  nothin'  by  raisin'  a  row,"  put  in 
Nancy,  in  a  hard  voice.  "I  'm  goin'.  Make  up  your 
minds  to  that." 

"Oh,  you  are,  are  you,  Miss  Simms?  That  's  all 
the  thanks  I  mighta  expected  from  you,  you  red- 
headed freckle-face !  I  sure  hope  he  '11  get  his  fill 


CINDERELLA  137 

of  you  before  he  's  done!  Walkin'  off  like  a  nigger 
without  a  minute's  notice,  an'  me  with  my  house  full 
of  men  comin'  to  their  meals  they  've  paid  for  anr 
has  to  have ! ' ' 

"Hire  another  nigger  an'  pay  'em  somethin',  so  's 
they  won't  quit  without  notice,  then,"  suggested  the 
girl,  unfeelingly. 

"How  you  know  this  feller  's  Milly  Champneys's 
husband  ? ' '  asked  Mr.  Baxter.  "  Who  's  to  prove  it  ? " 

Nancy  looked  at  him  and  laughed.  But  Milly 
Champneys's  husband  said  hastily:  "Let  us  go,  for 
God's  sake!  If  there  's  a  telephone  here,  ring  for  a 
cab  or  a  taxi.  How  soon  can  you  be  ready?" 

"I  can  walk  out  bag  and  baggage  in  ten  minutes," 
she  replied,  and  darted  from  the  room. 

The  South  Carolina  Don  Quixote  looked  at  the 
sordid,  angry  pair  before  him.  He  felt  like  one  in 
an  evil  dream,  a  dream  that  degraded  him,  and  Milly 's 
memory,  and  Milly 's  niece. 

"If  you  wish  to  make  any  inquiries,  I  shall  be  at  the 
Palace  Hotel  until  this  evening,"  he  told  them. 
"And — would  a  hundred  dollars  soothe  your  feel- 
ings?" 

The  woman's  eyes  slitted ;  the  man 's  bulged. 

"You  musta  come  by  money  since  Milly  died," 
said  Mrs.  Baxter.  "Yes,  sure  we  '11  take  the  hundred. 
"We  ain't  refusin'  money.  It  's  little  enough,  too, 
considerin '  all  I  done  for  that  girl ! ' ' 

Mr.  Champrieys  counted  out  ten  crisp  bills  into  the 
greedy  hand,  and  the  three  waited  silently  until 
Nancy  appeared.  Champneys  almost  screamed  at 


138  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

sight  of  her.  His  heart  sank  like  lead,  and  the  task 
he  had  set  for  himself  of  a  sudden  assumed  monu- 
mental proportions. 

"I  ain't  took  nothin'  out  of  this  house  but  the  few 
things  belongin'  to  my  mother.  You  're  welcome  to 
the  rest,"  she  told  the  woman,  briefly.  The  man  she 
ignored  altogether. 

A  cab  rattled  up  to  the  door.  In  silence  the  aristo- 
cratic old  man  in  white  linen,  and  the  red-headed  girl 
in  a  cheap  embroidered  shirt-waist,  a  dark,  shabby 
skirt,  and  a  hat  that  was  an  outrage  on  millinery, 
climbed  in.  There  were  no  farewells.  The  girl  set- 
tled back,  clutching  her  hand-satchel.  "Giddap," 
said  the  driver,  and  cracked  his  whip.  The  cab  rolled 
away  from  the  dingy,  smelly  house,  and  turned  a  cor- 
ner. So  rode  Nancy  Simms  out  of  her  old  life  into 
her  new  one. 


CHAPTER  IX 

PRICE-TAGS 

WHEN  Mr.  Chadwick  Champneys  had  visual- 
ized to  himself  Milly's  niece,  it  had  always 
been  in  Milly's  image  and  likeness — sweet, 
fair,  brave,  merry,  gentle,  and  strong.  Milly's  niece, 
of  course,  would  be  companionable.  He  would  only 
have  to  put  upon  her  the  finishing  touches,  so  to  speak, 
embellish  her  natural  graces  with  a  finer  social  polish. 
At  the  very  worst,  he  hadn't  dreamed  that  anybody 
belonging  to  Milly  could  be  like  this  red-headed 
Nancy.  Perhaps,  though,  she  would  be  less  objec- 
tionable when  she  was  properly  clad. 

" Drive  to  the  best  department  store  in  town,"  he 
told  the  driver,  briefly. 

Once  in  the  store  he  summoned  the  manager  and 
briefly  stated  his  needs.  The  young  lady  must  be 
furnished  with  everything  she  needed,  and  as  quickly 
as  possible.  She  needed,  it  appeared,  about  every- 
thing. The  shrewd  young  Jew  looked  her  over  with 
his  trained  eyes. 

"Should  you  prefer  our  Miss  Smith  to  proffer  aid 
and  advice?  Miss  Smith  is  an  expert." 

Mr.  Champneys  reacted  almost  with  terror  against 
Nancy  Simms's  probable  choice. 

139 


140  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

"See  that  the  young  lady  gets  the  best  you  have; 
and  make  Miss  Smith  the  final  authority,"  he  said, 
briefly. 

At  the  end  of  two  hours  Nancy  returned,  the  two 
clerks  and  the  manager  accompanying  her.  The  store 
people  were  slightly  flushed,  Nancy  herself  sullenly 
acquiescent.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had 
had  the  opportunity  to  buy  enough  clothes  of  her 
own,  and  yet  she  hadn't  been  allowed  to  choose  what 
she  really  wanted.  Gently  but  inexorably  they  had 
rejected  the  garments  Nancy  selected,  smoothly  in- 
sisting that  these  weren't  "just  the  thing"  for  her. 
They  slid  her  into  quiet-colored,  plainly  cut  things 
that  she  wouldn't  have  looked  at  if  left  to  her  own 
devices.  It  took  their  united  tact,  firmness,  and  di- 
plomacy to  steer  Nancy  over  the  reefs  of  what  the 
manager  called  hired-girl  taste. 

Nancy  was  silent  when  she  appeared  before  Mr. 
Champneys  in  her  new  clothes.  She  thought  that  if 
she  had  been  allowed  to  pick  them  out  for  herself, 
instead  of  having  been  hypnotized — "bulldozed"  is 
what  she  called  it — into  plain  old  dowdy  duds  by  two 
shopwomen  and  a  Jew  manager,  she  'd  have  given  him 
more  for  his  money. 

Mr.  Champneys,  looking  her  over  critically,  ad- 
mitted that  the  girl  was  at  least  presentable.  From 
hat  to  shoes  she  gave  the  impression  of  being  well 
and  carefully  dressed.  But  her  aspect  breathed  dis- 
satisfaction, her  bearing  was  ungraciousness  itself; 
nor  did  the  two  women  clerks,  trained  to  patience, 
tact,  and  politeness  as  they  were,  altogether  manage 


PEICE-TAGS  141 

to  conceal  their  unfavorable  opinion  of  her;  even  the 
clever,  smiling  young  Jew,  used  to  managing  women 
shoppers,  failed  to  hide  the  fact  that  he  was  more 
than  glad  to  get  this  one  off  his  hands. 

Nancy  hadn't  taken  time  to  eat  her  dinner  before 
leaving  the  Baxter  house,  nor  had  Mr.  Champneys 
had  his  lunch.  They  drove  to  his  hotel,  both  hun- 
gry, and  had  their  first  meal  together.  Nancy  had  n  't 
been  trained  to  linger  over  meals:  one  ate  as  much 
as  one  could  get,  in  as  short  a  space  of  time  as  pos- 
sible. Mr.  Champneys  was  grateful  to  a  merciful 
Providence  that  he  had  ordered  that  repast  served  in 
his  private  sitting-room. 

Her  hunger  quite  satisfied,  she  shoved  her  plate 
aside,  sighed,  stretched  luxuriously,  and  yawned 
widely,  like  the  healthy  animal  she  was. 

"What  we  got  to  do  now?  Them  women  at  the 
store  said  they  'd  get  the  rest  of  my  things  here,  along 
with  the  travelin'-bags,  in  a  coupla  hours.  I  got  a 
swell  suit-case,  did  n 't  I  ?  And  oh,  them  toilet  things ! 
But  between  now  and  then,  what  you  want  I  should 
do?" 

It  was  then  half-after  four,  and  the  train  they  were 
to  take  did  n 't  leave  until  half-after  seven. 

"What  would  you  like  to  do?"  he  asked. 

"Can  I  go  to  the  movies?" 

He  thought  it  an  excellent  idea.  It  would  give  him 
some  idea  of  the  girl 's  mental  processes ;  the  psychol- 
ogy of  the  proletariat,  he  thought,  could  be  studied 
to  advantage  in  their  reaction  to  the  movies. 

He  sat  beside  her  for  an  unhappy  hour  while  a 


142  THE  PUEPLE  HEIGHTS 

famous  screen  comedian  did  the  things  with  his  feet 
and  his  backbone  for  which  his  managers  paid  him 
more  in  one  year  than  the  United  States  pays  its 
Presidents  in  ten.  At  each  impossible  climax  Nancy 
shrieked  with  laughter,  the  loud,  delighted  laughter 
of  a  pleased  child.  Her  enthusiasm  for  the  slap- 
stick artist  provoked  him,  but  at  the  same  time  that 
gay  laughter  tickled  his  ears  pleasantly.  There  's 
plenty  of  good  in  a  girl  who  can  laugh  like  that! 
After  the  grimacing  genius  there  followed  a  short 
drama  of  stage  mother-love,  in  which  the  angel-child 
dies  strenuously  in  his  little  white  bed.  Nancy  dab- 
bled her  eyes,  and  blew  her  nose  with  what  her  cap- 
tious companion  thought  unnecessary  vigor. 

"Ain't  it  movin'?" 

"Yes.  Moving  pictures,"  was  the  cold  response. 
And  to  himself  he  was  saying,  defiantly:  "Well, 
what  else  could  I  expect?  She  's  not  a  whit  worse 
than  the  vast  majority!  She  's  got  the  herd-taste. 
That  's  perfectly  natural,  under  the  circumstances. 
When  I  get  her  well  in  hand,  she  will  be  different." 

"You  don't  like  funny  things,  an'  you  got  no 
feelin'  for  sad  things,"  she  ruminated,  as  they  left 
the  theater.  In  silence  they  walked  back  to  their 
hotel. 

The  bulk  of  her  purchases  had  been  sent  from  the 
store,  and  a  huge  parcel  awaited  her  in  her  room. 
It  enchanted  her  to  go  over  these  new  possessions,  to 
gloat  over  her  new  toilet  articles,  to  sniff  at  the 
leather  of  her  traveling-kit.  The  smell  of  new  leather 


PRICE-TAGS  143 

was  always  to  linger  subconsciously  in  Nancy's  mem- 
ory ;  it  was  the  smell  of  adventure  and  of  change. 

They  dined  together  in  Mr.  Champney's  sitting- 
room,  although  she  would  have  preferred  the  public 
dining-room.  Mr.  Champneys  was  an  abstemious 
man,  but  the  girl  was  frankly  greedy  with  the  naive 
greed  of  one  who  had  been  heretofore  stinted.  She 
had  seldom  had  what  she  really  craved,  and  at  best 
she  had  never  had  enough  of  it.  To  be  allowed  to 
order  what  and  as  much  as  she  pleased,  to  be  served 
first,  to  have  her  wishes  consulted  at  all,  was  a  new, 
amazing,  and  altogether  delightful  experience. 
Everything  was  brand-new  to  her. 

She  had  never  before  traveled  in  a  sleeping-car. 
It  delighted  her  to  watch  the  deft  porter  make  up  the 
berths;  she  decided  that  the  peculiar  etiquette  of 
sleeping-cars  required  that  all  travelers,  male  and 
female,  should  be  driven  to  bed  by  lordly  colored  men 
in  white  jackets,  and  there  left  in  cramped  misery 
with  nothing  but  an  uncertain,  rustling  curtain  be- 
tween them  and  the  world ;  this,  too,  at  an  hour  when 
nobody  is  sleepy.  Nancy  wondered  to  see  free  white 
citizens  meekly  obey  their  dusky  tyrant.  She  got 
into  her  own  lower  berth,  grateful  that  she  hadn't 
to  climb  like  a  cat  into  an  upper. 

She  lay  there  staring,  while  the  train  whizzed 
through  the  night.  This  had  been  the  most  mo- 
mentous day  of  her  life.  That  morning  she  had  been 
the  hopeless  slavey  in  the  Baxter  kitchen,  an  unpaid 
drudge  with  her  hand  against  every  man  and  every 


144  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

man's  hand  against  her.  She  had  been  bullied  and 
beaten,  she  had  eaten  leavings,  and  worn  cast-offs. 
Since  her  mother's  death  she  had  known  the  life  of 
.an  uncared-for  child,  the  minimum  of  care  measured 
against  the  maximum  of  labor  squeezed  out  of  it. 
Until  to-day  her  fate  had  been  the  fate  of  those  who 
approach  the  table  of  Life  with  unshod  feet  and  un- 
washen  hands. 

And  to-night  all  that  was  changed.  She  was  here, 
flying  farther  and  farther  away  from  all  she  had 
known.  She  wondered  if  she  were  not  dreaming  it. 
Panicky  at  that,  she  sat  up  in  her  berth,  pressed  the 
button  that  turned  on  the  electric  light,  slipped  her 
new  kimono  about  her,  and  looked  long  and  earnestly 
at  the  new  clothes  within  reach  of  her  hand.  There 
they  were,  real  to  her  touch;  there  was  her  fine  new 
hand-bag;  and  most  real  of  all  was  the  feel  of  the 
money  it  it.  Nancy  fingered  the  money,  thoughtfully 
smoothing  out  the  bills.  "As  soon  as  we  are  settled, 
you  will  have  your  allowance,  and  I  shall  of  course 
provide  you  with  a  check-book,"  Mr.  Champneys  had 
told  her.  ' '  In  the  meanwhile  you  will  naturally  want 
money  for  such  little  things  as  you  may  need. ' '  And 
he  had  given  her  twenty  five-dollar  bills.  She  had 
received  the  money  dumbly.  This  had  been  the 
crowning  miracle — for  she  had  never  in  the  whole 
course  of  her  life  had  so  much  as  one  five-dollar  bill 
to  do  as  she  pleased  with.  She  sat  looking  at  the 
money,  concrete  proof  of  the  reality  of  the  change 
that  had  befallen  her,  and  wondered,  and  wondered. 
With  a  sigh  of  content  she  thrust  the  hand-bag  under 


PRICE-TAGS  145 

her  pillow,  folded  her  kimono  at  the  foot  of  her  berth, 
switched  out  the  light,  and  presently  fell  asleep. 

In  his  berth  opposite  hers,  Mr.  Chadwick  Champ- 
neys,  more  sleepless  even  than  Nancy,  was  tabulating 
his  estimate  of  the  young  woman  he  had  acquired. 
It  ran  something  like  this : 

Looks :  bad ;  may  improve. 

Manners:  worse;  must  improve.  Particularly  in 
speech. 

Appetite:  that  of  the  seventeen-year  locust.  Must 
be  restrained,  to  prevent  an  early  death. 

Character  in  general :  suspend  judgment  until  fur- 
ther study. 

General  summary  of  personal  appearance:  Nice 
teeth  on  which  a  little  dentistry  will  work  wonders. 
Not  a  bad  figure,  but  does  n't  know  how  to  carry  her- 
self; has  a  villainous  fashion  of  slouching,  with  her 
hands  on  her  hips.  Plenty  of  hair,  but  of  terrifying 
redness;  sullen  expression  of  the  eyes;  fiendish  pro- 
fusion of  freckles:  may  have  to  be  skinned.  Excel- 
lent nose.  Speaks  with  appalling  frankness  at  times 
but  is  not  talkative. 

What  must  be  done  for  her?     Everything. 

He  groaned,  turned  over,  and  after  a  while  man- 
aged to  sleep.  Sufficient  to  the  day  ,was  the  red  hair 
thereof;  he  couldn't  afford  to  lie  awake  worrying 
about  to-morrow. 

He  had  long  since  decided  upon  New  York  as  a 
residence  until  all  his  plans  had  matured.  One  had 
greater  freedom  to  act,  and  far  more  privacy,  in  so 
large  a  city.  They  would  stay  at  some  quiet  hotel 


146  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

until  after  the  marriage;  then  he  and  Nancy  would 
occupy  the  house  he  had  recently  purchased,  in  the 
West  Seventies.  It  was  a  fine  old  house  with  a 
glimpse  of  near-by  Central  Park  for  an  outlook,  and 
what  he  had  paid  for  it  would  have  purchased  half 
Biverton.  He  wanted  its  large,  high-ceilinged  rooms 
to  be  furnished  as  the  old  house  in  Carolina  had  been 
furnished,  this  being  his  standard  of  all  that  was  de- 
sirable. He  wished  for  Peter's  wife  such  a  back- 
ground as  Peter's  forebears  had  known;  and  Peter's 
wife  must  be  trained  to  appreciate  and  to  fit  into  it, 
that  's  all! 

The  New  York  hotel,  with  its  deft  and  deferential 
servants  who  seemed  to  anticipate  her  wishes,  its  lux- 
ury, its  music,  its  shifting,  splendidly  dressed  patrons, 
its  light  and  glitter,  filled  Nancy  with  the  same  won- 
der that  had  fallen  upon  Aladdin  when  he  found  him- 
self in  the  magic  cave  with  all  its  treasures  gleaming 
before  his  astounded,  ignorant  young  eyes. 

She  hadn't  thought  the  whole  world  contained  so 
many  people  as  she  saw  in  New  York  in  one  day. 
Fifth  Avenue  amazed  and  absorbed  more  than  it 
delighted  her.  The  expressionless  expressions  of  the 
women,  their  hand-made  faces,  their  smart  shoes,  the 
way  they  wore  their  hair,  the  way  they  wore  their 
clothes;  the  men's  air  of  being  well  dressed,  of  hav- 
ing money  to  spend,  of  appearing  importantly  busy 
at  any  cost;  a  certain  pretentiousness,  as  if  every- 
thing were  shown  at  once  and  there  were  no  reserve 
of  power,  nothing  held  in  disciplined  abeyance,  inter- 
ested her  profoundly.  She  had  a  native  shrewdness. 


PRICE-TAGS  147 

"They're  just  like  the  same  kind  of  folks  back 
home,  but  there  's  more  of  'em  here, ' '  she  decided. 

The  huge  policemen  she  saw  at  every  turn,  lordly 
and  massive  monoliths  rising  superbly  above  lesser 
humanity,  filled  her  with  the  deepest  respect  and  ad- 
miration. The  mere  policemen  in  her  home  town 
were  to  these  magnificent  beings  as  daubs  to  Titians, 
as  pigmies  to  Titans.  If  in  those  first  days  the  girl 
had  been  called  upon  to  do  the  seven  bendings  and 
the  nine  knockings  before  the  one  New  York  institu- 
tion which  impressed  her  most  profoundly,  she  un- 
doubtedly would  have  singled  out  one  of  those  masto- 
dons a-bossing  everything  and  everybody  with  a 
prize-ham  paw. 

She  was  cold  to  the  Woolworth  Building,  as  indif- 
ferent to  the  Sherman  monument  as  Mr.  Chad  wick 
Champneys  was  acridly  averse  to  it,  and  not  at  all 
interested  in  the  Public  Library.  The  Museum  of 
Natural  History  failed  to  win  any  applause  from 
her;  the  Metropolitan  Museum  bored  her  intermi- 
nably, there  was  so  much  of  it.  Most  of  the  antiqui- 
ties she  thought  so  much  junk,  and  the  Egyptian  and 
Assyrian  remains  were  so  obviously  the  plunder  of 
old  graveyards  that  she  couldn't  for  the  life  of  her 
understand  why  anybody  should  wish  to  keep  them 
above  ground. 

Mr.  Champneys  explained,  patiently.  He  wished, 
by  way  of  aiding  and  abetting  the  education  he  had 
in  view  for  her,  to  arouse  her  interest  in  these  remains 
of  a  lost  and  vanished  world. 

She  stood  by  the  glass  case  that  contains  the  old 


148  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

brown  mummied  priest  with  his  shaven  skull,  his  long, 
narrow  feet,  his  flattened  nose  and  fleshless  hands, 
and  the  mark  of  the  embalmer's  stone  knife  still  vis- 
ible upon  his  poor  old  empty  stomach.  And  she 
didn't  like  him  at  all.  There  was  something  grisly 
and  repellent  to  her  in  the  idea  that  living  people 
should  make  of  this  poor  old  dead  man  a  spectacle 
for  idle  curiosity. 

"There  was  a  feller  in  our  town  used  to  keep 
stuffed  snakes  an'  monkeys  an'  birds,  an'  dried  grass- 
hoppers an'  bugs  an'  things  like  that  in  glass  cases; 
but  I  never  dreamed  in  all  my  born  life  that  any- 
body 'd  want  to  keep  dried  people,"  she  commented 
disgustedly.  "I  don't  see  no  good  in  it:  it  's  sick- 
enin'."  She  turned  her  back  upon  mummied  Egypt 
with  a  gesture  of  aversion.  "For  Gawdsake  let  's 
go  see  somethin'  alive!" 

He  looked  at  her  a  bit  helplessly.  Plainly,  this 
young  person's  education  wasn't  to  be  tackled  off- 
hand !  Agreeably  to  her  wishes  he  took  her  to  a  cer- 
tain famous  shop  filled  at  that  hour  with  fashionable 
women  wonderfully  groomed  and  gowned.  Here, 
seated  at  a  small  table,  lingering  over  her  ice-cream, 
Nancy  was  all  observant  eyes  and  ears.  Not  being 
a  woman,  however,  Mr.  Champneys  was  not  aware 
that  her  proper  education  was  distinctly  under  way. 

A  day  or  two  later  he  took  her  to  the  Bronx  Zoo. 
Here  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Nancy  Simms  that  made 
him  prick  up  his  ears  and  pull  his  mustache,  thought- 
fully. He  had  discovered  how  appallingly  ignorant 
she  was,  how  untrained,  how  undisciplined.  To-day 


PRICE-TAGS  149 

he  saw  how  really  young  she  was.  She  ran  from  cage 
to  cage.  Her  laughter  made  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
turn  up  sympathetically. 

There  was  something  pathetic  in  her  eager  enjoy- 
ment, something  so  fresh  and  unspoiled  in  that  laugh- 
ter of  hers  that  one  felt  drawn  to  her.  When  she  for- 
got to  narrow  her  eyes,  or  to  furrow  her  forehead, 
or  to  screw  up  her  mouth,  she  was  almost  attractive, 
despite  her  freckles!  Her  eyes,  of  an  agaty  gray- 
green,  were  transparently  honest.  She  had  brushed 
the  untidy  mop  of  red  hair,  parted  it  in  the  middle, 
and  wore  it  in  a  thick  bright  plait,  tied  with  a  black 
ribbon.  She  wore  a  simple  middy  blouse  and  a  well- 
made  blue  skirt.  Altogether,  she  looked  more  like  a 
normal  young  girl  than  he  had  yet  seen  her. 

The  Zoo  enchanted  her.  She  hurried  from  house 
to  house.  Once,  she  told  him,  when  she  was  a  little 
kid,  a  traveling-man  had  taken  her  to  a  circus,  be- 
cause he  was  sorry  for  her.  That  was  the  happiest 
day  she  had  ever  spent ;  it  stood  out  bright  and  golden 
in  her  memory.  There  had  been  a  steam-piano  hoo- 
hooing  ''Wait  till  the  clouds  roll  by,  Jenny." 
Wasn't  a  steam-piano  perfectly  grand?  She  liked 
it  better  than  anything  she  'd  ever  heard.  She  'd 
long  ago  made  up  her  mind  that  if  she  was  ever  really 
rich  and  had  a  place  of  her  own,  she  'd  have  a  big 
circus  steam-piano  out  in  the  barn,  and  she  'd  play 
it  on  Sundays  and  holidays — hoo-hoo,  hoo-hoo,  hoo, 
hoo-hoo — like  that,  you  know. 

And  to-day  reminded  her  of  that  long-ago  circus 
day,  with  even  more  animals  to  look  at!  She  had 


150  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

never  seen  as  many  different  animals  as  she  wanted 
to  see,  until  now.  She  admitted  that  she  sort  of 
loved  wild  things — she  even  liked  the  wild  smell  of 
'em.  There  was  something  in  here — she  touched  her 
breast  lightly — that  felt  kin  to  them. 

There  was  not  the  usual  horde  of  visitors,  that  day 
being  a  pay-day.  A  bearded  man  with  a  crutch  was 
showing  one  or  two  visitors  around,  and  at  a  word 
from  him  a  keeper  unlocked  a  cage  door,  to  allow  a 
young  chimpanzee  to  leap  into  his  arms.  It  hugged 
him,  exhibiting  extravagant  affection;  it  thrust  out 
its  absurd  muzzle  to  kiss  his  cheek,  and  patted  him 
with  its  small,  leathery,  unpleasantly  human  hands. 

"It  's  just  like  any  other  baby,"  said  the  keeper, 
petting  it. 

"I  sure  hope  it  ain't  like  any  /  '11  ever  have,"  said 
Nancy,  so  naively  that  the  man  with  the  crutch 
laughed.  He  looked  at  her  keenly. 

"Go  over  and  see  the  baby  lion,"  he  suggested;  and 
he  added,  smiling,  "It  's  got  red  hair." 

"It  can  afford  to  have  red  hair,  so  long  as  it  's  a 
lion,"  said  Nancy,  sturdily;  and  she  added,  reflec- 
tively: "I  'd  any  day  rather  have  me  a  lion-child 
with  red  hair,  than  a  monkey-child  with  any  kind 
of  hair." 

Somehow  that  blunt  comment  pleased  Mr.  Champ- 
neys.  When  he  took  his  charge  back  to  their  hotel 
that  evening,  it  was  with  something  like  a  glimmering 
of  real  hope  in  his  heart. 

The  next  day,  as  he  joined  her  at  lunch,  he  said 
casually : 


PKICE-TAGS  151 

"I  had  a  message  from  my  nephew  this  morning. 
He  will  be  here  in  a  few  days." 

She  turned  pale ;  the  hand  that  held  her  fork  be- 
gan to  tremble. 

"Is  it — soon?"  she  asked,  almost  unaudibly. 

"The  sooner  the  better.  I  think  we  'd  better  have 
it  here,  in  our  sitting-room,  say  at  noon  on  Wednes- 
day. Don't  be  scared,"  he  added,  kindly.  "All  you 
have  to  do  is  just  to  stand  still  and  say,  'I  will,'  at 
the  right  moment." 

"An'— an'  then?" 

"My  nephew's  boat  sails  at  about  two.  He  drives 
to  the  pier.  You  and  I  go  to  our  apartment,  until 
our  own  house  is  ready  for  us.  You  see  how  nicely 
it  's  all  arranged. ' ' 

"I  ain't — I  mean,  I  don't  have  to  see  him  nor  talk 
to  him  before,  do  I?"  She  looked  panic-stricken. 
' '  Because  I  won 't !  I  can 't !  There  's  some  things  I 
just  can't  stummick,  an'  meetin'  that  feller  before 
the  very  last  minute  I  got  to  do  it,  is  one  of  'em." 

"Of  course,  of  course!  You  sha'n't  meet  him  un- 
til the  very  last  minute.  Though  he  's  a  mighty  nice 
chap,  my  nephew  Peter  is — a  mighty  nice  chap." 

"He  must  be!  "We  're  both  of  us  a  mighty  nice 
pair,  ain't  we?  Him  goin'  one  way  an'  me  goin' 
another  way,  all  by  our  lonesomes!" 

' '  The  arrangement  does  not  suit  you  ? "  he  inquired 
politely. 

"Oh,  it  suits  me  all  right,"  she  said,  after  a  mo- 
ment. "I  said  I  'd  do  what  I  was  told,  an'  I  '11  do 
it — I  ain't  the  sort  backs  down.  But  I  ain't  none 


152  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

too  anxious  to  get  any  better  acquainted  with  this 
feller  than  what  I  am  right  now.  I  ain't  stuck  on 
men,  noways." 

"You  are  only  sixteen,  my  dear,"  he  reminded  her. 

"Women  know  as  much  about  men  when  they  're 
sixteen  as  they  do  when  they  're  sixty,"  said  she, 
coldly.  "There  ain't  but  one  thing  to  believe  about 
'em — an'  that  is,  you  best  not  believe  any  of  'em." 

"I  hope,"  said  he,  stiffly,  "that  you  have  no  just 
cause  to  disbelieve  me,  Nancy?  Have  I  been  unkind 
to  you  ? ' ' 

"It  ain't  me  you  're  either  kind  or  yet  unkind  to," 
she  told  him.  "It  's  Aunt  Milly's  niece:  you  're  a 
little  crazy  on  that  head,  I  guess.  It  's  Aunt  Milly's 
niece  you  aim  to  marry  to  that  nephew  of  yours. 
If  I  was  just  me  myself  without  bein'  any  kin  to 
her,  you  wouldn't  wipe  your  old  shoes  on  me."  She 
gave  him  a  clear,  level  look.  "Let  's  don't  have  any 
lies  about  this  thing, ' '  she  begged.  "I  'ma  poor  hand 
for  lies.  I  know,  and  I  want  you  should  know  I 
know,  and  deal  with  me  honest." 

She  surprised  him.  Her  next  question  surprised 
him  even  more. 

"What  about  my  weddin '-dress?"  she  demanded. 
"I  got  nothin'  fittin'  to  be  married  in." 

"I  should  think  a  plain,  tailored  suit — "  he  be- 
gan. 

"Then  you  got  another  think  comin'  to  you,"  she 
said,  in  a  hard  voice.  "I  got  nothin'  to  do  with 
pickin'  out  the  groom:  you  fixed  that  to  suit  your- 
self. But  I  don't  let  no  man  alive  pick  out  my  dress. 


PEICE-TAGS  153 

I  want  a  weddin '-dress.  I  want  one  I  want  myself. 
I  want  it  should  be  white  satin'  an'  real  bride-like. 
I  've  saw  pictures  of  brides,  an'  I  know  what  's  due 
'em.  I  ain't  goin'  to  resemble  just  me  myself, 
standin'  up  to  be  married  in  a  coat-suit  you  get  some 
floor-walker  to  pick  out  for  me.  White  satin  or 
nothin'.  An'  a  veil  and  white  satin  slippers." 

He  looked  at  her  helplessly.  "White  satin,  my 
dear?  And  a  veil?" 

"Yes,  sir.  An'  a  shower  bokay,"  said  she,  firmly. 
"I  got  to  insist  on  the  shower  bokay.  If  I  got  to  be 
a  bride  I  '11  be  my  kind  of  bride  and  not  yours." 

"My  dear  child,  of  course,  of  course.  You  shall 
choose  your  own  frock,"  said  he,  hastily.  "Only — 
under  the  circumstances,  I  can't  help  thinking  that 
something  plain,  something  quite  plain  and  simple, 
would  be  more  in  keeping." 

"With  me?  'T wouldn't,  neither.  It  'd  be  some- 
thing fierce,  an'  I  won't  stand  for  it.  I  don't  mind 
bein'  buried  in  somethin'  plain,  but  I  won't  get 
married  in  it.  Ain't  it  hard  enough  as  it  is,  without 
me  havin'  to  feel  more  horrid  than  what  I  do  al- 
ready? I  want  something  to  make  me  feel  better 
about  it,  and  there  ain't  anything  can  do  that  except 
it  's  a  dress  I  want  myself." 

Mr.  Champneys  capitulated,  horse  and  foot. 

"We  will  go  to  some  good  shop  immediately  after 
lunch,  and  you  shall  choose  your  own  wedding-dress," 
he  promised,  resignedly,  marveling  at  the  psychology 
of  women. 

It  was  a  very  fine  forenoon,  with  a  hint  of  coming 


154  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

autumn  in  the  air.  Even  an  imminent  bridegroom 
couldn't  altogether  dampen  the  delight  of  whizzing 
through  those  marvelous  streets  in  a  taxi.  Then 
came  the  even  more  marvelous  world  of  the  depart- 
ment store,  which,  "by  reason  of  the  multitude  of 
all  kind  of  riches,  in  all  sorts  of  things,  in  blue 
clothes,  and  broidered  work,  and  in  chests  of  rich 
apparel,"  put  one  in  mind  of  the  great  fairs  of  Tyre 
when  Tyre  was  a  prince  of  the  sea,  as  set  forth  in 
the  Twenty-seventh  Chapter  of  Ezekiel. 

Nancy  would  have  been  tempted  to  marry  Blue- 
beard himself  for  the  sake  of  some  of  the  "rich 
apparel"  that  obliging  saleswomen  were  setting  forth 
for  her  inspection.  Getting  married  began  to  assume 
a  rosier  aspect,  due  probably  to  the  reflection  of  the 
filmy  and  lacy  miracles  that  she  might  have  for  the 
mere  choosing.  She  would  almost  have  been  willing 
to  be  hanged,  let  alone  married,  in  a  pink-silk  com- 
bination. 

The  saleswomen  scented  mystery  and  romance  here. 
The  girl  was  no  beauty,  but  then,  she  was  astonishingly 
young ;  and  the  old  gentleman  was  very  distinguished- 
looking — quite  a  personage.  They  thought  at  first 
that  he  was  the  prospective  bridegroom ;  learning  that 
he  wasn't  deepened  the  mystery  but  didn't  destroy 
the  romance.  Americans  are  all  but  hysterically  sen- 
timental. Sentimentality  is  a  national  disease,  which 
rages  nowhere  more  virulently  than  among  women 
clerks.  "Would  they  rush  through  the  necessary  al- 
terations, set  an  entire  force  to  work  overtime,  if 
necessary,  in  order  to  have  that  girl's  wedding-dress 


PRICE-TAGS  155 

at  her  hotel  on  time  ?  Would  n't  they,  though !  And 
they  did.  Gown,  gloves,  veil,  shoes,  fan,  everything; 
all  done  up  with  the  most  exquisite  care  in  reams  of 
soft  tissue  paper. 

She  was  to  be  married  on  the  noon  of  Wednesday. 
On  Tuesday  night  Nancy  locked  her  door,  opened  her 
boxes,  and  spread  her  wedding  finery  on  her  bed. 
The  dress  was  a  magnificent  one,  as  magnificent  a 
dress  as  a  great  store  can  turn  out ;  its  lines  had  been 
designed  by  a  justly  famous  designer.  There  was  a 
slip,  with  as  much  lace  as  could  be  put  upon  one 
garment;  such  white  satin  slippers  as  she  had  never 
hoped  to  wear;  and  the  texture  of  the  silk  stockings 
almost  made  her  shout  for  joy.  Achilles  was  vulner- 
able in  the  heel:  fly,  0  man,  from  the  woman  who  is 
indifferent  to  the  lure  of  a  silk  stocking ! 

Nancy  got  into  her  kimono  and  turned  on  the  hot 
water  in  her  bath.  At  Baxters'  there  had  never  been 
enough  hot  water  with  which  to  wash  the  dishes,  not 
to  mention  Nancy  herself.  Here  there  was  enough 
to  scald  all  the  dishes — and  the  people — on  earth,  it 
seemed  to  her.  She  could  hardly  get  used  to  the 
delight  and  the  luxury  of  all  the  hot  water  and 
scented  soap  and  clean  towels  she  wanted,  in  a  bath- 
room all  to  herself.  Think  of  not  having  to  wait 
one's  turn,  a  very  limited  turn  at  that,  in  a  spotted 
tin  tub  set  in  a  five-by-seven  hole  in  the  wall,  with 
an  unshaded  gas-jet  sizzling  about  a  foot  above  one's 
head!  The  shower-bath  was  to  her  an  adventure — 
like  running  out  in  the  rain,  when  one  was  a  child. 
She  could  n  't  get  into  the  tub,  and  slide  down  into 


156  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

the  warm,  scented  water,  without  a  squeal  of  pleas- 
ure. 

She  skipped  back  to  her  bedroom,  red  as  a  boiled 
lobster,  a  rope  of  damp  red  hair  hanging  down  her 
back,  sat  down  on  the  floor,  and  drew  on  those  silk 
stockings,  and  loved  them  from  a  full  heart.  She 
wiggled  her  toes  ecstatically. 

"0  Lord!"  sighed  Nancy,  fervently,  "I  wish 
You  'd  fix  it  so  's  folks  could  walk  on  their  hands 
for  a  change !  My  feet  are  so  much  prettier  than  my 
face!" 

Slipping  on  the  satin  slippers,  she  teetered  over  and 
reverently  touched  the  satin  frock.  All  these  glories 
for  her,  Nancy  Simms,  who  had  worn  Mrs.  Baxter's 
wretched  old  clothes  cut  down  for  her ! 

She  was  afraid  to  refold  the  dress,  almost  afraid 
to  touch  it,  lest  she  rumple  it.  It  looked  so  shining, 
so  lustrous,  so  fairy-like  and  glorious  and  almost  im- 
possible, glistening  there  on  her  bed!  Carefully  she 
smoothed  a  fold,  slightly  awry.  Reverently  she  placed 
the  thin  tulle  veil  beside  it,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  her 
Cinderella  finery,  including  the  satin  slippers  and  the 
fine  silk  stockings  which  her  soul  loved. 

She  took  the  two  pillows  off  her  bed,  secured  two 
huge  bath-towels  from  her  bath-room  by  way  of  a 
mattress  and  a  coverlet;  and  with  a  last  passionate 
glance  at  the  splendors  of  her  wedding-frock,  and 
never  a  thought  for  the  unknown  groom  because  of 
whom  she  was  to  don  it,  the  bride  switched  off  her 
light,  curled  herself  up  like  a  cat,  and  in  five  minutes 
was  sound  asleep  on  the  floor. 


CHAPTEE  X 

THE  DEAR  DAM -FOOL 

'  ~1    "V  IS  place,"  said  Emma  Campbell,  as  the  snag- 

1  gle-toothed  sky-line  of  New  York  unfolded 

M    J  before  her  staring  eyes,  ''ain't  never  growed 

up  natchel  out  o'  de  groun';  it  done  tumbled  down 

out  o'  de  sky  en  got  busted  uneven  in  de  fall." 

Clinging  to  the  bird-cage  in  which  her  cat  Satan 
crouched,  she  further  remarked,  as  the  taxi  snaked 
its  sinuous  way  toward  the  quarters  which  a  friendly 
waiter  on  the  steamship  had  warmly  recommended 
to  her : 

' '  All  I  scared  ob  is,  dat  dis  unf orchunit  cat  's  gwine 
to  lose  'is  min'.  Seein'  places  like  dis  is  'nough  to 
make  any  natchel  cat  run  crazy." 

Whereupon  Emma  relapsed  into  a  colossal  silence. 
She  was  fed  up  on  surprises  and  they  were  palling 
upon  her  palate,  which  fortunately  wasn't  down. 
Things  had  been  happening  so  fast  that  she  couldn't 
keep  step  with  them.  To  begin  with,  Peter  had  pre- 
ferred to  come  north  by  sea,  and  although  Emma  had 
been  raised  on  the  coast,  although  she  was  used  to 
the  capricious  tide-water  rivers  which  this  morning 
may  be  lamb-like  and  to-night  raging  lions,  although 
157 


158  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

she  had  crossed  Calihoga  Sound  in  rough  weather  and 
been  rolled  about  like  a  ninepin,  that  had  been,  so 
to  speak,  near  the  shore-line.  This  was  different: 
here  was  more  water  than  Emma  had  thought  was  in 
the  entire  world ;  and  she  had  been  assured  that  this 
wasn't  a  bucketful  to  what  she  was  yet  to  see! 
Emma  fell  back  upon  silent  prayer. 

Then  had  come  this  astounding  city  jutting  jag- 
gedly  into  the  clouds,  and  through  whose  streets 
poured  in  a  never-ceasing,  turgid  flow  all  the  peoples 
of  the  earth.  And,  more  astounding  than  waterful 
sea  and  peopleful  city,  was  the  last,  crowning  bit  of 
news:  Peter  was  going  to  be  married!  And  he 
did  n't  know  the  young  lady  he  was  to  marry,  except 
that  she  was  a  Miss  Anne  Simms.  He  knew  no  more 
about  his  bride  than  she,  Emma,  knew. 

That  was  all  Emma  needed  to  reduce  her  to  abso- 
lute befuddlement.  When  food  and  drink  were 
placed  before  her,  she  partook  of  both,  mechanically. 
If  one  spoke  to  her,  she  stared  like  a  large  black  owl. 
And  when  Peter  had  driven  away  in  the  taxi,  leaving 
her  for  the  time  being  in  the  care  of  a  highly  re- 
spectable colored  family,  whose  children,  born  and 
raised  in  New  York,  looked  upon  the  old  South  Caro- 
lina woman  as  they  might  have  looked  upon  a  vis- 
itor from  Mars,  Emma  shut  and  locked  her  door, 
took  the  cat  out  of  his  cage,  cuddled  him  in  her  arms, 
tried  to  projeck, — and  couldn't.  The  feel  of  Satan's 
soft,  warm  body  comforted  her  inexpressibly.  He, 
at  least,  was  real  in  a  shifting  universe.  She  began 
to  rock  herself,  slowly,  rhythmically,  back  and  forth. 


THE  DEAR  DAM-FOOL  159 

Then  the  New  York  negroes  heard  a  shrill,  sweet, 
wailing  voice  upraised  in  one  of  those  speretuals  in 
which  Africa  concentrates  her  ages  of  anguish  into 
a  half-articulate  cry.  In  it  were  the  voices  of  their 
fathers  long  gone,  come  back  from  the  rice-fields  and 
the  cane-brakes  and  the  cotton-rows,  voices  so  sweet 
and  plaintive  that  they  were  haunted. 

"I  we-ent  out  een  de  wilderness, 
En  I  fell  upon — mah — knees, 
En  I  called  upon — mah — Savior, 
Whut  sh-all  I  do— for— save? 
He  replied: 

Ealleluia.nl 
Sinnuh,  sing! 

Z7 alleluian  ! 
Ma-ry,  Mar-tha,  halle— 

Hallelu— 

Ualleluian!" 

"Good  Lord!"  breathed  the  oldest  boy,  who  was 
a  high -school  scholar. 

"How  weird  and  primitive!"  said  the  daughter, 
who  was  to  be  a  teacher. 

But  the  father 's  eyes  narrowed,  and  the  hair  of  his 
scalp  prickled.  'Way  back  yonder  his  mother  had 
sung  like  that,  and  his  heart  leaped  to  it.  If  he 
hadn't  been  afraid  of  his  educated  and  modern  chil- 
dren, he  would  have  wept.  Emma  did  n't  know  that, 
of  course.  She  kissed  the  big  cat,  placed  him  care- 
fully on  the  bed,  and  lay  down  beside  him  in  the 
attitude  of  a  corpse.  She  was  resigning  herself  to 
whatever  should  happen. 


160  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

Peter,  upon  telephoning  his  uncle,  had  been  ad- 
vised to  prowl  about  until  noon,  when  they  were  to 
lunch  together.  Wherefore  he  found  himself  upon 
the  top  of  a  bus,  rolling  about  New  York,  seeing  that 
of  which  he  had  read.  He  didn't  see  it  as  Nancy 
saw  it ;  the  city  appeared  to  him  as  might  some  subtle, 
hard,  and  fascinatingly  plain  woman  whose  face  had 
flashes  of  piercing  and  unforgetable  beauty,  beauty 
unexpected  and  unlike  any  other.  Unlike  the  beauty 
of  the  Carolina  coast,  say,  which  was  a  part  of  his 
consciousness,  there  was  here  something  sinister  and 
splendid. 

He  got  off  at  the  Metropolitan  Museum.  He  wished 
to  see  with  his  own  eyes  some  of  those  pictures  Clari- 
bel  Spring  had  described  to  him,  among  them  For- 
tuny's  "Spanish  Lady."  He  stood  for  a  dazzled 
interval  before  her,  so  disdainful,  passionate,  provoc- 
ative, and  so  profoundly  human.  When  he  moved 
away,  he  sighed.  He  wasn't  wondering  if  he  him- 
self should  ever  meet  and  love  such  a  lady ;  but  rather 
when  he  should  be  able  so  to  portray  in  a  human  face 
all  the  secrets  of  the  body  and  of  the  soul. 

At  lunch  his  uncle,  remarking  his  earnest  face,  said 
regretfully : 

"Oh,  Peter,  why  couldn't  you  be  content  to  be  a 
rich  man  and  play  the  game  according  to  Hoyle? 
Art?  Of  course!  You  could  afford  to  buy  the  best 
any  of  'em  could  do,  instead  of  trying  to  sell  some- 
thing you  do  yourself.  Art  is  a  rich  man's  recrea- 
tion. Artists  exist  in  order  that  rich  men  may  buy 
their  wares." 


THE  DEAR  DAM-FOOL  161 

"Rich  men  were  invented  for  the  use  of  poor 
artists:  it  's  the  only  excuse  they  have  for  existing 
at  all,  that  I  can  see,"  said  Peter,  composedly. 

"But  you  'd  have  a  so  much  better  time  buying, 
than  selling — or  rather,  trying  to  sell,"  said  one  of 
the  rich  men,  smiling  good-humoredly. 

"I  '11  have  a  better  time  working,  than  in  either 
buying  or  selling,"  said  Peter,  and  looked  at  his 
uncle  with  uncompromising  eyes. 

Mr.  Chadwick  Champneys  sighed,  face  to  face  with 
Champneys  obstinacy.  Peter  would  keep  his  prom- 
ise to  the  letter,  but  aside  from  that  he  would  live 
his  own  life  in  his  own  way. 

He  had  stared,  and  his  jaw  dropped,  when  he 
was  calmly  informed  that  Peter  intended  to  take  old 
Emma  Campbell  and  a  black  cat  along  with  him. 
Then  he  had  laughed,  almost  hysterically,  and  inci- 
dentally discovered  that  being  laughed  at  did  n't  move 
Peter  in  the  least ;  he  was  too  used  to  it.  He  allowed 
you  to  laugh  at  him,  smiled  a  bit  wryly  himself,  and 
went  right  ahead  doing  exactly  what  he  had  set  out 
to  do.  This  sobered  Mr.  Champneys. 

"Peter,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "allow  me  to  ask 
you  a  single  question:  do  you  propose  to  go  through 
life  toting  old  niggers  and  black  cats?" 

"Uncle  Chad,"  replied  Peter,  "do  you  remember 
how  sweet  potatoes  roasted  in  the  ashes  of  a  colored 
person's  fire  used  to  taste,  when  you  were  a  little 
boy?" 

A  reminiscent  glow  spread  over  Uncle  Chad's  face. 
He  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  and  stared  under 


162  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

it  at  Peter.  Something  quizzical  and  tender  was  in 
that  look. 

"I  see  you  do,"  said  Peter,  with  the  same  look. 
"Well,  Uncle  Chad,  Emma  used  to  roast  those  po- 
tatoes— and  provide  them  too.  Sometimes  they  were 
all  the  dinner  I  had.  Besides,"  mused  Peter,  ''when 
all  's  said  and  done,  nobody  has  more  than  a  few 
friends  from  his  cradle  to  his  grave.  If  I  've  got 
two,  and  they  don't  want  to  part  with  me,  why 
should  they  have  to?" 

Mr.  Chadwick  Champneys  spread  out  his  hands. 
"Put  like  that,"  he  admitted,  "why  should  they,  in- 
deed? Take  'em  along  if  you  like,  Nephew."  And 
of  a  sudden  he  laughed  again.  "Oh,  Peter!"  he 
gasped,  "you  dear  dam-fool!" 

Peter  had  a  strenuous  afternoon.  Reservations  had 
to  be  secured  for  Emma,  for  whom  he  also  purchased 
a  long  coat  and  a  steamer  rug.  He  himself  had  to 
have  another  suit:  his  uncle  protested  vehemently 
against  the  nice  new  one  he  had  bought  in  Charles- 
ton. 

At  dusk  he  watched  New  York's  lights  come  out 
as  suddenly  and  as  goldenly  as  evening  primroses. 
Riverton  drowsing  among  its  immemorial  oaks  beside 
the  salty  tide-water,  the  stars  reflected  in  its  many 
coves,  the  breath  of  the  pines  mingling  with  the  wild 
breath  of  the  sea  sweeping  through  it,  the  little,  de- 
serted brown  house  left  like  a  last  year's  nest  close 
to  the  water — how  far  removed  they  were  from  this 
glittering  giantess  and  her  pulsating  power !  The 


THE  DEAR  DAM-FOOL  163 

electric  lights  winked  and  blinked,  the  roar  of  traffic 
arose  in  a  multitudinous  hum ;  and  all  this  light  and 
noise,  the  restless  stir  of  an  immense  life,  went  to  the 
head  like  wine. 

The  streets  were  fiercely  alive.  Among  the  throngs 
of  well-dressed  people  one  caught  swift  glimpses  of 
furtive,  hurrying  figures,  and  faces  that  were  danger 
signals.  More  than  once  a  few  words  hissed  into 
Peter's  ears  made  him  turn  pale. 

It  was  nearing  midnight,  and  the  street  was  vir- 
tually empty,  when  a  girl  who  had  looked  at  him 
sharply  in  passing  turned  and  followed  him,  and 
after  a  glance  about  to  see  that  no  policeman  was  in 
sight,  stepped  to  his  side  and  touched  him  on  the 
elbow.  Peter  paused,  and  his  heart  contracted.  He 
had  seen  among  the  negroes  the  careless  unmorality 
as  of  animals.  There  was  nothing  of  the  prude  in 
him,  but,  perhaps  because  all  his  life  there  had  been 
a  Vision  before  his  eyes,  he  had  retained  a  singu- 
larly untroubled  mental  chastity.  His  mind  was 
clean  with  the  cleanliness  of  knowledge.  He  could 
not  pretend  to  misunderstand  the  girl.  She  was 
nothing  but  a  child  in  years.  The  immaturity  of 
her  body  showed  through  her  extreme  clothes,  and 
even  her  sharp,  painted  little  face  was  immature,  for 
all  its  bold  nonchalance.  She  was  smiling;  but  one 
sensed  behind  her  deliberate  smile  a  wolfish  anxiety. 

"Ain't  you  lonesome?"  she  asked,  fluttering  her 
eyelids,  and  giving  the  young  man  a  sly,  upward 
glance. 


164  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

"No,"  said  Peter,  very  gently. 

"Aw,  have  a  heart !  Can't  you  stand  a  lady  some- 
thin'  to  eat  an'  maybe  somethin'  to  drink?" 

The  boy  looked  at  her  gravely  and  compassionately. 
Although  her  particular  type  was  quite  new  to  him, 
he  recognized  her  for  what  she  was,  a  member  of  the 
oldest  profession,  the  strange  woman  "whose  mouth 
is  smoother  than  oil,  but  whose  feet  go  down  to  death. 
Her  steps  take  hold  on  hell."  Somehow  he  could  not 
connect  those  terrible  words  with  this  sharp-featured, 
painted  child.  There  was  nothing  really  evil  about 
her  except  the  brutal  waste  of  her. 

"Will  ten  dollars  be  enough  for  you?"  asked  Peter. 
The  wolfish  look  in  her  eyes  hurt  him.  He  felt 
ashamed  and  sad. 

"Sure!     Come  on!"  said  she,  and  her  face  lighted. 

"Thank  you,  I  have  had  my  dinner,"  said  Peter. 
But  she  seized  his  arm  and  hurried  him  down  a  side 
street,  willy-nilly.  "Seen  a  cop  out  of  the  tail  of 
my  eye,"  she  explained,  hurriedly.  "They  're  fierce, 
some  of  them  cops.  I  can't  afford  to  be  took  up." 

When  they  had  turned  the  corner,  Peter  stopped, 
and  took  out  his  pocket-book.  With  another  search- 
ing glance  at  her,  he  handed  her  one  five,  and  two 
ten-dollar  bills.  Perhaps  that  might  save  her — for  a 
while  at  least.  He  lifted  his  hat,  bowed,  and  had 
started  to  walk  away,  when  she  ran  after  him  and 
clutched  him  by  the  arm. 

"Take  back  that  fiver,"  said  she,  "an'  come  and 
eat  with  me.  If  you  got  a  heart,  come  an'  eat  with 
me.  I  know  a  little  place  we  can  get  somethin'  de- 


THE  DEAR  DAM-FOOL  165 

cent:  it  's  a  dago  caff  ay,  but  it  's  clean  an'  decent 
enough.  Will  you  come?"  Her  voice  was  shaking; 
he  could  see  her  little  body  trembling. 

"But  why?"  he  asked,  hesitatingly. 

''Not  for  no  reason,  except  I — I  got  to  make  my- 
self believe  you  're  real!"  She  said  it  with  a  gasp. 

Peter  fell  in  beside  her  and  she  led  the  way.  The 
small  restaurant  to  which  she  piloted  him  was  n  't 
pretentious,  but  it  was,  as  she  had  said,  clean,  and 
the  food  was  excellent. 

She  said  her  name  was  Gracie  Cantrell,  and  Peter 
took  her  word  for  it.  While  she  was  eating  she  dis- 
coursed about  herself,  pleased  at  the  interest  this 
odd,  dark-faced  young  fellow  with  the  soft,  drawling 
voice  seemed  to  take  in  her.  She  had  begun  in  a  box 
factory,  she  told  him.  And  then  she  'd  been  a  candy- 
dipper.  Now,  you  work  in  a  lowered  atmosphere  in 
order  not  to  spoil  your  chocolate.  For  which  reason 
candy-dippers,  like  all  the  good,  are  likely  to  die 
young.  Seven  of  the  girls  in  Gracie 's  department 
"got  the  T.  B."  That  made  Gracie  pause  to  think, 
and  the  more  she  thought  about  it,  the  clearer  it 
seemed  to  her  that  if  one  has  to  have  a  short  life, 
one  might  at  least  make  a  bid  for  a  merrier  one  than 
candy-dipping.  So  she  made  her  choice.  The  short 
life  and  merry,  rather  than  the  T.  B.  and  charity. 

"And  has  it  been  so  merry,  Gracie?"  asked  Peter, 
looking  at  the  hard  young  face  wonderingly. 

"Well,  it  's  been  heaps  better  than  choc 'late-dip- 
pin',"  said  Gracie,  promptly.  "I  don't  get  no 
worse  treated,  when  all  's  said  an'  done.  I  've  got 


166  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

better  clothes  an'  more  time  an'  I  don't  work  nothin' 
like  so  hard.  An'  I  got  chanst  to  see  things.  You 
don't  see  nothin'  in  the  fact'ry.  Say  I  feel  like 
goin'  to  the  movies,  or  treatin'  myself  to  a  ice-cream 
soda  or  a  choc 'late  a-clair,  why,  I  can  do  it  without 
nobody's  leave — when  I  'm  lucky.  You  ain't  ever 
lucky  in  the  fact'ry:  you  never  have  nothin',  see? 
So  I  'd  rather  be  me  like  I  am  than  be  me  back  in  the 
fact'ry." 

"And  do  you  always  expect  to  be — lucky?"  Peter 
winced  at  the  word. 

"I  can't  afford  to  think  about  that,"  she  replied, 
squinting  at  the  red  ink  in  her  glass.  "You  got  to 
run  your  risks  an'  take  your  chances.  All  I  know 
is,  I  '11  have  more  and  see  more  before  I  die.  An' 
I  won't  die  no  sooner  nor  no  painfuller  than  if  I  'd 
stayed  on  in  the  fact'ry." 

Peter  admitted  to  himself  that  she  probably 
wouldn't.  Also,  that  he  had  nothing  to  say,  where 
Gracie  was  concerned.  He  felt  helpless  in  the  face 
of  it — as  helpless  as  he  had  felt  one  June  morning 
long  ago  when  he  had  seen  old  Daddy  Neptune  pray- 
ing, after  a  night  of  horror,  to  a  Something  or  a 
Somebody  blind  and  indifferent.  And  it  seemed  to 
him  that  life  pressed  upon  him  menacingly,  as  if  he 
and  Neptune  and  this  lost  child  of  the  New  York 
streets  had  been  caught  like  rats  in  a  trap. 

The  girl,  on  her  part,  had  been  watching  him  with 
painful  intensity. 

"You  're  a  new  one  on  me,"  she  told  him  frankly. 
"I  feel  like  pinchin'  you  to  see  if  you  're  real.  Say, 


THE  DEAR  DAM-FOOL  167 

tell  me :  if  you  're  real,  are  you  the  sort  of  guy  that  'd 
give  twenty-five  dollars,  for  nothin',  to  a  girl  he 
picked  up  in  the  street?  Or,  are  you  just  a  softy 
fool  that  a  girl  that  picks  him  up  in  the  streets  can 
trim?  There  's  more  of  him  than  the  first  sort,"  she 
finished. 

"You  must  judge  that  for  yourself,"  said  Peter. 
"I  may  tell  you,  though,  that  I  am  quite  used  to 
being  called  a  fool,"  he  finished,  tranquilly. 

"So?"  said  she,  after  another  long  look.  "Well, 
I — what  I  mean  to  say  is,  I  wish  to  God  there  was 
more  fools  like  you.  If  there  was,  there  'd  be  less 
fools  like  me."  After  a  pause  she  asked,  in  a  sub- 
dued voice : 

"You  expect  to  stay  in  this  town  long?" 

"I  leave  in  the  morning." 

"I  'm  sorry,"  said  she.  "Not,"  she  added  hastily, 
"that  I  want  to  touch  you  for  more  money  or  any- 
thing like  that.  I  don't.  But  I— well,  I  'd  like  to 
know  you  was  livin'  in  the  same  town,  see?" 

Peter  saw.  But  again  he  had  nothing  to  say. 
Young  as  he  was,  he  knew  the  absurdity  of  all  talk 
of  reform  to  such  as  Gracie.  As  things  are  they  can't 
reform,  they  can't  even  be  prevented.  He  looked  at 
her,  thoughtfully. 

"I  'm  not  only  leaving  New  York,  I  'm  leaving 
America  to-morrow,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  wish  there 
was  something  I  could  do  for  you." 

She  shook  her  head.  Her  little  painted  face  looked 
pinched.  There  were  shadows  under  the  eyes  that 
should  have  been  soft  and  dewy.  "You  can't  do 


168  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

nothin'.  I  '11  tell  you  why.  Somehow— I— I  'd  like 
you  to  know." 

And  she  sat  there  and  told  him. 

"You  see?"  said  she,  when  she  had  finished. 

"I  see,"  said  Peter;  and  the  hand  that  held  his 
cigarette  tremhled.  The  thing  that  struck  him  most 
forcibly  was  the  stupid  waste  of  it  all. 

"Look  here,  Gracie,"  he  said  at  last,  "if  you  ever 
get — very  unlucky — and  things  are  too  hard  for  you 
— sort  of  last  ditch,  you  know, — I  want  you  to  go 
to  a  certain  address.  It  's  to  my  uncle,"  he  ex- 
plained, seeing  her  look  blank.  "You  '11  send  in  the 
card  I  'm  going  to  give  you,  and  you  will  say  I  sent 
you.  He  '11  probably  investigate  you,  you  know. 
But  you  just  tell  him  the  truth,  and  say  I  told  you 
he  'd  help.  Will  you  do  that?" 

She  in  her  turn  reflected,  watching  Peter  curiously. 
Then  she  fell  to  tracing  patterns  on  the  table-cloth 
with  the  point  of  her  knife. 

"All  right,"  she  said.  "If  ever  I  have  to,  an'  I 
can  find  him,  I  will — an'  say  you  sent  me." 

Peter  took  out  his  pocket  memorandum,  wrote  his 
uncle's  name  and  the  address  of  the  house  in  the 
Seventies  which  he  was  presently  to  occupy,  added, 
"I  wish  you  'd  do  what  you  can,  for  my  sake,"  and 
signed  it.  He  handed  the  girl  the  slip  of  paper, 
and  she  thrust  it  into  her  low-necked  blouse. 

"And  now,"  he  finished  kindly,/ 'you  'd  better  go 
home,  Gracie,  go  to  bed,  and  sleep."  He  held  out 
his  brown  hand,  and  she,  rising  from  her  chair, 


THE  DEAR  DAM-FOOL  169 

gripped  his  fingers  as  a  child  might  have  done,  and 
looked  at  him  with  dog's  eyes. 

"Good-by!"  said  she,  huskily.  "You  are  real, 
ain't  you?" 

' '  Damnably  so, ' '  admitted  Peter.  * '  Good-by,  then, 
Gracie. ' '  And  he  left  her  standing  by  the  table,  the 
empty  wine-glass  before  her.  The  streets  stretched 
before  him  emptily. —  That  poor,  done-for  kid! 
"What  is  one  to  do  for  these  Gracies  ? 

"Mister!  For  God's  sake!  I'm  hungry!"  a 
hoarse  voice  accosted  him.  A  dirty  hand  was  held 
out. 

Mechanically  Peter's  hand  went  to  his  pocket,  found 
a  silver  dollar,  and  held  it  out.  The  dirty  hand 
snatched  it,  and  without  so  much  as  a  thank  you  the 
man  rushed  into  a  near-by  bakery.  Peter  shuddered. 

When  he  reached  his  room,  he  sat  for  a  long  time 
before  his  open  window,  and  stared  at  the  myriads 
and  myriads  of  lights.  From  the  streets  far  below 
came  a  subdued,  ceaseless  drone,  as  if  the  huge  city 
stirred  uneasily  in  her  sleep — perhaps  because  she 
dreamed  of  the  girls  she  prostituted  and  the  men  she 
starved.  And  it  was  like  that  everywhere.  If  the 
great  cities  gave,  they  also  took,  wastefully.  Peter 
was  tormented,  confronted  by  the  inexorable  ques- 
tion: 

"What  am  Z  going  to  do  about  it?" 

He  could  n  't  answer,  any  more  than  any  other 
earnest  and  decent  boy  could  answer,  whose  whole  and 
sole  weapon  happened  to  be  a  paint-brush.  One  thing 


170  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

he  resolved:  he  wouldn't  add  to  the  sum  total;  no- 
body should  be  the  worse  off  because  he  had  lived. 
So  thinking,  the  bridegroom  fell  asleep. 

When  he  awoke  in  the  morning,  he  lay  for  a  mo- 
ment staring  at  the  strange  ceiling  overhead ;  his  mind 
had  an  uneasy  consciousness  that  something  im- 
pended. Then  he  sat  up  suddenly  in  his  bed,  and 
clutched  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"Lord  have  mercy  on  me!"  cried  Peter.  "I  've 
got  to  get  up  and  get  married!" 

By  ten  o'clock  his  luggage  was  on  its  way  to  the 
steamer.  Dressed  in  his  new  clothes,  ring  and  li- 
cense carefully  tucked  away  in  his  pocket,  Peter  took 
an  hour  off  and  jumped  on  a  bus.  It  delighted  him 
to  roll  around  the  streets  on  top  of  a  bus.  He  felt 
that  he  could  never  see  enough  of  this  wonderful, 
terrible,  beautiful,  ugly,  cruel,  and  kind  city.  Every- 
where he  turned,  something  was  being  torn  down  or 
up,  something  was  being  demolished  or  replaced. 
New  York  was  like  an  inefficient  and  yet  hard-working 
housekeeper,  forever  house-cleaning;  her  house  was 
never  in  order,  and  probably  never  would  be,  hence 
this  endless  turmoil.  Yet,  somehow,  Peter  liked  it. 
She  was  n  't  satisfied  with  things  as  they  were. 

He  stopped  at  Grant's  Tomb,  looked  at  the  bronze 
tablet  commemorating  the  visit  of  Li  Hung  Chang, 
then  went  inside  and  stared  reflectively  at  the  torn 
and  dusty  flags. 

"It  was  worth  the  price,"  he  decided.  "But,"  he 
added,  with  a  certain  deep  satisfaction,  "I  'm  glad 
we  gave  them  a  run  for  their  money  while  we  were 


THE  DEAR  DAM-FOOL  171 

at  it ! "  The  Champneyses,  one  remembers,  were  on 
the  other  side. 

When  he  got  back  to  his  hotel  the  car  that  his 
uncle  had  sent  for  him  had  just  arrived.  Deferential 
help  brought  out  his  remaining  belongings,  were 
tipped,  and  stood  back  while  the  door  was  slammed 
upon  the  departing  one.  The  car  was  held  up  for 
seven  minutes  on  Forty-second  Street,  while  Peter 
leaned  forward  to  get  his  first  view  of  congested  traf- 
fic. He  had  once  seen  two  Ford  cars  and  an  ox-cart 
tie  up  the  Biverton  Road. 

Arrived  at  Emma  Campbell's  quarters,  he  found 
her  sitting  stiffly  erect,  her  foot  upon  her  new  suit- 
case, her  new  cloak  over  her  arm,  and  the  bird-cage 
under  her  hand.  The  expressman  who  had  called 
for  her  trunk  early  that  morning  had  good-naturedly 
offered  to  carry  the  bird-cage  along  with  it,  but 
Emma  had  flatly  refused  to  let  the  cat  get  out  of 
her  sight.  Even  when  she  climbed  into  the  car  she 
held  fast  to  the  cage. 

"I  don't  say  nothin'  'bout  me.  All  I  scared  ob  is, 
dat  dis  unforchnate  cat  's  gwine  to  lose  'is  min'  be- 
fore we-all  finishes  up." 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  Peter  persuaded  her  to 
leave  the  cage  in  the  car  when  they  reached  his  uncle 's 
hotel. 

"Mistuh,"  said  Emma  to  the  chauffeur,  "is  you-all 
got  any  fambly  dependin'  on  you?" 

"One  wife.  Three  kids,"  said  the  chauffeur, 
briefly. 

"I  ain't  de  kin'  ob  lady  whut  makes  threats  agin' 


172  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

a  gent 'man,"  said  Emma,  looking  him  unblinkingly 
in  the  eye.  "All  I  says  is,  dat  I  started  whah  I 
come  fum  wid  dat  cat  an'  I  'specks  to  Ian'  up  whah 
I  's  gwine  to  wid  dat  same  cat  in  dat  same  cage. 
Bein'  as  you  's  got  dem  chillun  en  dat  wife,  I  calls 
yo'  'tenshun  to  dat  fac',  suh." 

The  chauffeur,  a  case-hardened  pirate,  laughed. 
"All  right,  lady,"  said  he,  genially.  "It  ain't  in 
my  line  to  granny  cats,  but  that  one  will  be  the 
apple  of  me  good  eye  until  you  git  back.  I  wouldn't 
like  the  missus  to  be  a  widder:  she  's  too  darn  good- 
lookinV 

With  her  mind  at  ease  on  this  point,  Emma  con- 
sented to  leave  Satan  in  the  car  and  follow  Peter. 
Emma  looked  resplendently  respectable,  and  she  knew 
it.  She  was  dressed  as  well  as  if  she  had  expected  to 
be  buried.  By  innate  wisdom  she  had  retained  the 
snowy  head-handkerchief  under  her  sailor  hat,  and 
she  wore  her  big  gold  hoop-earrings.  Smart  colored 
servants  were  common  enough  at  that  hotel,  but  one 
did  not  often  see  such  as  this  tall  and  erect  old 
woman  in  her  severe  black-and-white.  Emma  be- 
longed almost  to  another  day  and  generation,  although 
her  face,  like  the  faces  of  many  old  colored  women, 
was  unwrinkled.  She  had  a  dignity  that  the  newer 
generation  lacks,  and  a  pride  unknown  to  them. 

Peter  and  Emma  went  up  in  an  elevator  and  were 
ushered  into  a  private  sitting-room,  where  were  await- 
ing them  Mr.  Chadwick  Champneys,  a  gentleman  who 
was  obviously  a  clergyman,  another  who  was  as  ob- 
viously a  member  of  the  Bar,  and  the  latter 's  wife, 


THE  DEAR  DAM-FOOL  173 

a  very  handsome  lady  handsomely  and  expensively 
panoplied.  There  was  the  usual  hand-shaking,  as 
Peter  was  introduced,  and  the  handsome  lady  stared 
openly  at  Emma ;  one  does  n  't  often  see  a  bridegroom 
come  in  accompanied  by  an  old  colored  woman. 
Emma  courtesied,  with  the  inimitable  South  Caro- 
lina bending  of  the  knees,  and  then  took  a  modest 
seat  in  the  background  and  faded  into  it.  She  had 
good  manners,  had  Emma. 

Mr.  Champneys  glanced  at  his  watch,  and  presently 
left  the  room.  The  clergyman,  book  in  hand,  stepped 
into  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  looked  importantly 
religious.  The  lawyer  smilingly  invited  Peter  to 
take  his  place  beside  him.  Everybody  assumed  a 
solemn  look. 

And  then  the  door  opened  and  the  bride  appeared, 
leaning  on  her  uncle's  arm.  Emma  Campbell,  lean- 
ing forward,  got  one  glimpse  of  the  face  but  slightly 
concealed  by  the  thin,  floating  tulle  veil  pinned  on 
with  a  wreath  of  orange-blossoms,  caught  one  gleam 
from  the  narrowed  eyes;  and  her  own  eyes  bulged  in 
her  head,  her  mouth  fell  open.  Emma  wished  to  pro- 
test, to  cry,  to  pray  aloud. 

The  bride  was  magnificently  dressed,  in  a  gown 
that  was  much  too  elaborate  for  her  angular  and  un- 
developed young  figure.  It  made  her  look  over- 
dressed and  absurd  to  a  pitiful  degree,  as  if  she  were 
masquerading.  The  hair-dresser  whom  she  had  called 
to  her  aid  had  done  her  worst.  Nancy  had  an  un- 
usual quantity  of  hair,  and  it  had  been  curled  and 
frizzed,  and  puffed  and  pulled,  until  the  girl's  head 


174  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

appeared  twice  its  natural  size.  Through  the  fine 
lace  of  her  sleeves  were  visible  her  thin,  sunburned 
arms.  Her  naturally  dark  eyebrows  had  been  ac- 
centuated, and  there  was  a  bright  red  patch  on  each 
cheek,  her  lips  being  equally  crimson.  Out  of  the 
rouged  and  powdered  face  crowned  by  towering  red 
hair,  the  multitude  of  freckles  showed  defiantly,  two 
fierce  eyes  lowered. 

As  Peter  met  the  stare  of  those  narrowed  eyes,  to 
save  his  life  he  couldn't  keep  from  showing  his 
downright  consternation.  His  aversion  and  distaste 
were  so  manifest,  that  a  deeper  red  than  rouge  stained 
the  girl's  cheek  and  mottled  her  countenance.  Her 
impulse  was  to  raise  her  hand  and  strike  him  across 
his  wincing  mouth. 

What  Nancy  saw  was  a  tall,  thin,  shambling  young 
fellow  whose  face  was  pale  with  an  emotion  not  at  all 
complimentary  to  herself.  He  didn't  like  her!  He 
thought  her  hideous !  He  despised  her !  So  she  read 
Peter's  expressive  eyes.  She  thought  him  a  fool,  to 
stand  there  staring  at  her  like  that,  and  she  hated 
him.  She  detested  him.  Puppy ! 

She  saw  his  glance  of  piteous  entreaty,  and  Mr. 
Chad  wick  Champneys's  bland,  blind  ignoring  of  its 
silent  reproach  and  appeal.  And  then  the  long- 
legged  young  fellow  pulled  himself  together.  His 
head  went  up,  his  mouth  hardened,  and  his  voice 
didn't  shake  when  he  promised  to  cherish  and  pro- 
tect her,  until  death  did  them  part. 

All  the  while  Peter  felt  that  he  was  struggling  in  a 
hideous  dream.  That  bride  in  white  satin  wasn't 


THE  DEAR  DAM-FOOL  175 

real;  his  uncle  wouldn't  play  him  such  a  trick! 
Peter  cringed  when  the  defiant  voice  of  the  girl 
snapped  her  "I  do"  and  "I  will." 

The  clergyman's  voice  had  trailed  off.  He  was 
calling  her  "Mrs.  Champneys."  And  Mr.  Vander- 
velde  and  his  handsome  wife  were  shaking  hands 
with  her  and  Peter,  and  saying  pleasant,  polite,  con- 
ventional things  to  them  both.  She  signed  a  paper. 
And  that  old  nigger-woman  kept  staring  at  her;  but 
Peter  avoided  meeting  her  eyes.  And  her  uncle  was 
saying  that  she  must  change  her  frock  now,  my 
dear:  Peter's  boat  sailed  within  the  hour,  remember. 
And  then  she  was  back  in  her  room,  tearing  off  the 
dress  that  only  last  night  she  had  so  fondly  fingered. 

It  lay  on  the  floor  in  a  shimmering  heap,  and  she 
trampled  on  it.  She  had  torn  the  tulle  veil  and 
orange-blossoms  from  her  hair,  and  she  stamped  on 
those,  too.  The  maid  who  had  been  engaged  to  help 
her  stood  aghast  when  the  bride  kicked  her  wedding- 
gown  across  the  room.  She  folded  it  with  shaking 
hands  and  smoothed  the  torn  veil  as  best  she  could. 
The  beautiful  lace-and-ivory  fan  was  snapped  and 
torn  beyond  hope  of  salvage.  Nancy  tossed  it  from 
her.  With  round  eyes  the  maid  watched  her  tear 
hair-pins  out  of  her  hair,  rush  into  the  bath-room, 
and  with  furious  haste  belabor  her  head  with  a  wet 
brush  to  remove  the  fatal  frizzings;  but  the  work 
had  been  too  thoroughly  done  to  hope  to  remove  all 
traces  of  it  so  easily.  Nancy  brushed  it  as  best  she 
could,  and  then  rolled  it  into  a  stout  coil  on  the  top  of 
her  head.  Her  satin  slippers  came  hurtling  across 


176  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

the  room  as  she  kicked  them  off,  and  the  maid  caught 
them  on  the  fly. 

Back  into  the  bath-room  again,  and  the  maid  could 
hear  her  splashing  around,  as  she  scrubbed  her  face. 
When  she  came  out,  it  was  brick-red,  but  powderless 
and  paintless.  She  got  into  her  blue  tailored  suit 
without  assistance,  and,  sitting  on  the  floor,  but- 
toned her  shoes  with  her  own  fingers,  to  the  maid's 
disgust.  Then  she  jerked  on  her  hat,  stuck  a  hat-pin 
through  it  carelessly,  snatched  up  gloves  and  hand- 
bag, and  was  ready  for  departure.  The  expression 
of  her  face  at  that  moment  sent  the  maid  cowering 
against  the  wall,  and  tied  her  tongue;  the  bride 
looked  as  if  she  were  quite  capable  of  pitching  an 
officious  helper  out  of  a  ten-story  window. 

"My  God!"  said  the  girl  to  herself,  as  Nancy,  with- 
out so  much  as  a  word  or  a  look  in  her  direction, 
slammed  the  door  behind  her.  "My  God,  if  that 
poor  fellow  that  's  just  been  married  to  her  was  any 
kin  to  me,  I  'd  have  a  High  Mass  said  for  his  soul!" 

The  brick-red  apparition  that  swept  into  the  room 
put  the  final  touch  upon  Peter's  dismay.  He  thought 
her  the  most  unpleasant  human  being  he  had  ever  en- 
countered, and  almost  the  ugliest.  The  Vander- 
veldes  had  taken  the  clergyman  off  in  their  car,  and 
only  Peter,  his  uncle,  and  Emma  remained. 

"I'm  ready!"  snapped  the  bride.  She  didn't 
glance  at  the  bridegroom,  but  the  look  she  bestowed 
upon  Emma  made  that  doughty  warrior  quail. 
Emma  conceived  a  mortal  terror  of  Peter's  wife.  She 
took  the  place  of  the  Boogerman  and  of  ha'nts. 


THE  DEAR  DAM-FOOL  177 

Chadwick  Champneys  had  his  hand  on  his  neph- 
ew's shoulder,  and  was  talking  to  him  in  a  low  and 
very  earnest  voice — rather  like  a  clergyman  consol- 
ing a  condemned  man  with  promises  of  heaven  after 
hanging.  Peter  received  his  uncle's  assurances  in 
resigned  silence. 

Two  cars  were  waiting  outside  the  hotel  for  the 
wedding-party.  As  Emma  Campbell  stepped  into 
the  one  that  was  to  convey  her  and  Peter  to  the 
boat,  Nancy  saw  her  stoop  and  lift  a  large  bird-cage 
containing,  of  all  things,  an  immense  black  cat, 
which  mewed  plaintively  at  sight  of  her.  It  was  the 
final  touch  of  grotesqueness  upon  her  impossible  wed- 
ding. The  two  Champneyses  wrung  hands  silently. 
The  older  man  said  a  few  words  to  the  colored 
woman,  and  shook  hands  with  her,  too. 

Then  the  two  cars  were  rolling  away,  Nancy  sitting 
silent  beside  her  uncle.  At  the  corner  Peter's  van- 
ished. The  bride  hoped  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart 
that  she  would  never  lay  eyes  upon  her  bridegroom 
again.  She  did  n  't  exactly  wish  him  any  harm, 
greatly  as  she  disliked  him,  but  she  felt  that  if  he 
would  go  away  and  die  he  would  be  doing  her  a  per- 
sonal favor. 

Peter  and  Emma  made  their  boat  ten  minutes  be- 
fore the  gang-plank  was  pulled  in.  A  steward  took 
Emma  in  charge,  and  carried  off  the  bird-cage  con- 
taining Satan.  Emma,  who  had  been  silent  during 
the  drive  to  the  pier,  opened  her  mouth  now: 

"Mist'  Peter,"  said  she,  "ef  yo'  uncle  's  wuth  a 
million  dollars,  he  ought  to  tun  it  over  to  you  dis 


178  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

mawnin'.  'T  ain't  for  me,"  said  Emma,  beginning 
to  tremble,  "to  talk  'bout  Mis'  Champneys  whut  you 
done  got  married  to.  But  I  used  to  know  Miss  Maria. 
And  dat  's  how-come,"  finished  Emma,  irrelevantly, 
"dat  's  how-come  I  mighty  glad  we  's  gwine  to  furrin 
folkses'  countries,  whichin  I  hopes  to  Gawd  dey  's  a 
mighty  long  way  off  fum  dat  gal."  And  Peter's 
heart  echoed  Emma's  sentiments  so  fully  that  he 
couldn't  find  it  in  him  to  reprove  her  for  giving 
utterance  to  them. 

With  a  sense  of  relief,  he  watched  New  York  reced- 
ing from  his  sight.  Had  n't  he  paid  too  high  a  price, 
after  all?  Remembering  his  bride's  eyes,  pure  ter- 
ror assailed  him.  No  woman  had  ever  looked  at  Peter 
like  that  before.  He  tried  to  keep  from  feeling  bitter 
toward  his  uncle.  Well!  He  was  in  for  it!  He 
•would  make  his  work  his  bride,  by  way  of  compensa- 
tion. For  all  that  he  was  a  bridegroom  of  an  hour 
or  so,  and  a  seeker  bound  upon  the  quest  of  his 
heart's  desire,  Peter  turned  away  from  the  steamer's 
railing  with  a  very  heavy  heart. 

A  tall,  fair-faced  woman  turned  away  from  the 
railing  at  the  same  instant,  and  their  eyes  met.  Hers 
were  brightly,  bravely  blue,  and  they  widened  with 
astonishment  at  sight  of  Peter  Champneys.  She 
stared,  and  gasped.  Peter  stared,  and  gasped,  too. 

''Miss  Claribel!"  cried  Peter. 

"Mrs.  Hemingway,"  she  corrected,  smiling.  "It 
is  n't— Yes,  it  is,  too !  Peter !  Oh,  that  Red  Admiral 
is  a  fairy!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

HIS  GRANDMOTHER'S  HOUSE 

1  ~*tT  T  is  rather  wonderful  to  turn  around  and  find  you 

here,  Peter, — and  to  find  you  so  unchanged.     Be- 

M     cause  you  haven't  changed,  really;  you  've  just 

grown  up,"  said  Mrs.  Hemingway,  holding  his  hand. 

Her  face  was  excited   and   glad.    "I  should  have 

known  you  instantly,  anywhere." 

"I  am  told  my  legs  are  quite  unmistakable.  Some 
have  said  I  appear  to  be  walking  on  fishing-poles," 
said  Peter. 

Mrs.  Hemingway  laughed.  ' '  They  seem  to  be  good, 
long,  serviceable  legs,"  she  said,  gaily.  "But  it  is 
your  eyes  I  recognized,  Peter.  One  could  n  't  mistake 
your  eyes." 

Peter  smiled  at  her  gratefully.  "The  really  won- 
derful thing  is  that  you  should  remember  me  at  all," 
he  told  her  happily,  and  his  face  glowed.  That  her 
reappearance  should  be  timed  to  the  outset  of  his 
great  adventure  into  life  seemed  highly  significant. 
One  might  almost  consider  it  an  omen. 

As  if  they  had  parted  but  yesterday,  they  were 

able  to  resume  their  old  sympathetic  friendship,  with 

its    satisfying    sense    of    comradely    understanding. 

Her  heart  warmed  to  him  now  as  it  had  warmed  to 

179 


180  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

the  shabby  boy  she  had  first  seen  running  after  the 
Red  Admiral  in  the  fields  beyond  the  river  swamp. 
No,  she  reflected  appraisingly,  he  had  not  changed. 
He  had  somehow  managed  to  retain  a  certain  qual- 
ity of  childlikeness  that  made  her  feel  as  if  she  were 
looking  through  crystal.  She  was  grateful  that  no 
contact  had  been  able  to  blunt  it,  that  it  remained 
undimmed  and  serene. 

Briefly  and  rather  baldly  Peter  outlined  his  years 
of  struggle,  dismissing  their  bleak  hardships  with  a 
tolerant  smile.  What  he  seemed  chiefly  to  remember 
was  the  underlying  kindness  and  good  humor  of  the 
folk  back  there  in  Riverton;  if  they  had  ever  failed 
to  be  kind,  it  was  because  they  had  n  't  understood, 
he  thought.  There  was  no  resentment  in  him.  Why, 
they  were  his  own  folks!  His  mother's  grave  was 
one  of  their  graves,  his  name  one  of  their  names, 
their  traditions  and  heritages  were  part  and  parcel 
of  himself.  The  tide-water  was  in  his  blood ;  his  flesh 
was  dust  of  the  South  Carolina  coast. 

She  saw  that,  while  he  was  speaking.  And  against 
the  vivid,  colorful  coast  background  she  caught  haunt- 
ing glimpses  of  a  tireless  small  figure  toiling,  sweat- 
ing, always  moving  toward  a  far-off  goal  as  with  the 
inevitable  directness  of  a  fixed  law.  She  marveled 
at  the  patience  of  his  strength,  and  she  loved  his 
gentleness,  his  sweetness  that  had  a  flavor  of  other- 
worldliness  in  it. 

He  was  telling  her  now  of  Chadwick  Champneys 
and  how  his  coming  had  changed  things.  But  of  the 
price  he  had  had  to  pay  he  said  nothing.  He  tried 


HIS  GRANDMOTHER'S  HOUSE          181 

not  to  think  of  the  bride  his  uncle  had  forced  upon 
him,  though  her  narrowed  eyes,  her  red  hair,  her 
mouth  set  in  a  hard  red  line  haunted  him  like  a  night- 
mare. His  soul  revolted  against  such  a  mockery  of 
marriage.  He  could  imagine  his  mother's  horror, 
and  he  was  glad  Maria  Champneys  slept  beside  the 
husband  of  her  youth  in  the  cemetery  beside  the 
Riverton  Road.  She  wouldn't  have  asked  him  to 
pay  such  a  price,  not  for  all  the  Champneyses  dead 
and  gone !  But  Chadwick  Champneys  had  held  him 
to  his  bargain,  had  forced  him  to  give  his  name,  his 
father's  name,  of  which  his  mother  had  been  so  proud. 

Peter  smarted  with  humiliation.  It  was  as  if  he 
had  been  bought  and  sold,  and  he  writhed  under  the 
disgrace  of  such  bondage.  He  felt  the  helpless  anger 
of  one  who  realizes  he  has  been  shamefully  swindled, 
yet  is  powerless  to  redress  his  injury ;  and  what  added 
insult  to  injury  was  that  a  Champneys,  his  father's 
brother,  had  inflicted  it. 

Yet  he  had  no  faintest  notion  of  breaking  or  even 
evading  his  pledged  word ;  such  a  thought  never  once 
occurred  to  him.  He  meant  to  live  up  to  the  letter 
of  his  bargain ;  his  honor  would  compel  him  to  fulfil 
his  obligation  scrupulously  and  exactly. 

"And  so  my  uncle  and  I  came  to  terms,"  he  told 
Mrs.  Hemingway.  And  he  added  conscientiously: 
"He  is  very  liberal.  He  insisted  upon  placing  to 
my  credit  what  he  says  I  '11  need,  but  what  seems  to 
me  too  much.  And  so  here  I  am,"  he  finished. 

"Yes,  here  you  are.  It  had  to  be,"  said  she, 
thoughtfully.  "It  's  your  fate,  Peter." 


182  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

"It  had  to  be.     It  's  my  fate,"  agreed  Peter. 

"And  that  nice,  amusing  old  colored  woman  who 
kept  house  for  you — what  became  of  her?" 

"Emma?  Oh,  she  wouldn't  stay  behind,  so  she 
came  along  with  me.  And  she  could  n  't  leave  the  cat, 
so  he  came  along,  too,"  said  Peter,  casually. 

Mrs.  Hemingway  laughed  as  his  uncle  had  laughed. 

"There  's  an  odd  turn  to  your  processes,  Peter," 
she  commented.  "One  sees  that  you'll  never  be 
molded  into  a  human  bread  pill !  I  'm  glad  we  've 
met  again.  I  think  you  're  going  to  need  me.  So 
I  'm  going  to  look  after  you." 

"I  have  needed  you  every  day  since  you  left,"  he 
told  her. 

He  didn't  as  yet  know  what  deep  cause  he  had  to 
feel  grateful  for  Mrs.  John  Hemingway's  promise  to 
look  after  him;  he  didn't  as  yet  know  what  an  im- 
portant person  she  was  in  the  American  colony  in 
Paris,  as  well  as  in  certain  very  high  circles  of  French 
society  itself.  And  what  was  true  of  her  in  Paris 
was  also  true  of  her  in  London.  Mrs.  John  Heming- 
way's promise  to  look  after  a  young  man  hall-marked 
him.  She  was  more  beautiful  and  no  less  kind  than 
of  old,  and  absence  had  not  had  the  power  tc  change 
his  feelings  for  her.  As  simply  and  whole-heartedly 
as  he  had  loved  her  then,  he  loved  her  now.  So  he 
looked  at  her  with  shining  eyes.  Reticence  was  in- 
grained in  Peter,  but  the  knowledge  that  she  liked 
and  understood  him  had  the  effect  of  sunlight  upon 
him. 

"He  's  as  simple  as  the  Four  Gospels,"  she  thought, 


PUS  GRANDMOTHER'S  HOUSE          183 

"and  as  elemental  as  the  coast  country  itself.  One 
could  n  't  spoil  him  any  more  than  one  could  spoil 
the  tide-water. 

"Yes,  indeed!  I  'm  going  to  look  after  you,"  she 
repeated. 

He  discovered,  from  what  she  herself  chose  to  tell 
him,  that  there  had  been  some  unpleasant  years  for 
her  too.  But  that  had  all  ended  when  she  married 
John  Hemingway,  then  with  a  New  York  firm  and 
later  sent  abroad  to  represent  the  interests  of  the 
company  of  which  he  was  now  a  member.  His  chief 
office  was  in  Paris,  though  he  had  to  spend  consider- 
able time  in  London.  When  she  spoke  of  John  Hem- 
ingway his  wife's  face  glowed  with  quiet  radiance. 
The  one  drop  of  bitterness  in  her  cup  was  that  there 
were  no  children. 

"I  hope  you  marry  young,  Peter,  and  that  there  '11 
be  a  houseful  of  little  Champneys,"  she  said,  and 
sighed  a  bit  enviously. 

At  that  the  face  of  Mrs.  Peter  Champneys  rose 
before  her  bridegroom  and  the  very  soul  of  him 
winced  and  cringed.  He  averted  his  face,  staring 
seaward. 

f  'I  know  so  many  charming  young  girls,"  said  Mrs. 
Hemingway,  musingly,  as  if  she  were  speaking  to  her- 
self. 

"They  don't  come  any  prettier  than  they  come  in 
Riverton,"  Peter  parried.  "And  you  're  to  remem- 
ber I  'm  coming  over  here  to  work." 

"I  '11  remember,"  said  she,  smiling.  "But  all  the 
same,  I  mean  you  to  go  about  it  the  right  way.  I  'm 


184  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

going  to  introduce  you  to  some  very  delightful  people, 
Peter." 

Then  Peter  took  her  to  see  Emma  Campbell  and 
the  cat. 

Emma  would  have  crawled  into  her  berth  and  stayed 
there  until  the  ship  docked  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
cat.  Satan  had  to  be  given  a  daily  airing;  he  had 
to  be  looked  after  by  some  one  she  could  trust,  and 
Emma  rose  to  the  occasion.  She  crawled  out  of  her 
berth  and  on  deck,  where,  steamer  rug  over  her 
knees,  her  head  tightly  bound  in  a  spotless  white 
head-handkerchief,  she  sat  with  her  hand  on  the  big 
bird-cage  set  upon  a  camp-stool  next  her  chair. 

"I  don'  say  one  Gawd's  word  about  me,  dough  I 
does  feel  lak  I  done  swallahed  my  own  stummick. 
All  I  scared  of  is  dat  dis  po'  unforch'nate  cat  's 
gwine  to  lose  'is  min'  befo'  we-all  lan's,"  she  told 
Mrs.  Hemingway,  and  cast  a  glance  of  deep  distaste 
at  the  tumbling  world  of  waters  around  her.  Emma 
didn't  like  the  sea  at  all.  There  was  much  too  much 
of  it. 

"I  got  a  feelin'  heart  for  ole  man  Noah,"  she  con- 
cluded pensively. 

"When  they  sighted  the  Irish  coast,  Emma  discovered 
a  deep  sense  of  gratitude  to  the  Irish :  no  matter  what 
they  didn't  have,  they  did  have  land;  and  land  and 
plenty  of  it,  land  that  you  could  walk  on,  was  what 
Emma  craved  most  in  this  world.  When  they  pres- 
ently reached  England,  she  was  so  glad  to  feel  solid 
earth  under  her  feet  once  more  that  she  was  jubilant. 

"Cat,  we-all  is  saved!"  she  told  Satan.     "You  en 


HIS  GRANDMOTHER'S  HOUSE          185 

me  is  chillun  o'  Israel  corne  thoo  de  Red  Sea.  We-all 
got  a  mighty  good  Gawd,  cat ! " 

They  went  up  to  London  with  Mrs.  Hemingway, 
and  were  met  by  Hemingway  himself,  who  gave  Peter 
Champneys  an  entirely  new  conception  of  the  term 
"business  man."  Peter  knew  rice-  and  cotton-  and 
stock-men,  even  a  provincial  banker  or  two — all  suc- 
cessful men,  within  their  limits.  But  this  big,  quiet, 
vital  man  had  n  't  any  limits,  except  those  of  the 
globe  itself.  A  tall,  fair  man  with  a  large  head,  de- 
cided features,  chilly  gray  eyes,  and  an  uncompro- 
mising mouth  adorned  with  a  short,  stiff  mustache, 
his  square  chin  was  cleft  by  an  incomprehensible 
dimple.  His  wife  declared  she  had  married  him  be- 
cause of  that  cleft;  it  gave  her  an  object  in  life  to 
find  out  what  it  meant. 

Hemingway  studied  Peter  curiously.  He  had  a 
great  respect  for  his  wife's  nice  and  discriminating 
judgment,  and  it  was  plain  that  this  long-legged,  un- 
pretentious young  man  was  deeply  in  her  good  graces. 
Evidently,  then,  this  chap  must  be  more  than  a  bit 
unusual.  Going  to  be  an  artist,  was  he?  Well, 
thank  God,  he  did  n 't  look  as  if  he  were  afflicted  with 
the  artistic  temperament;  he  looked  as  if  he  were 
capable  of  hard  work,  and  plenty  of  it. 

People  liked  to  say  that  John  Hemingway  was  a 
fine  example  of  the  American  become  a  cosmopolitan. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  Hemingway  wasn't.  He  liked 
Europe,  but  in  his  heart  he  wearied  of  its  over- 
sophistication,  its  bland  diplomacy.  His  young  coun- 
tryman's unspoiled  truthfulness  delighted  him.  He 


186  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

was  proud  of  it.  A  man  trained  to  judge  men,  he 
perceived  this  cub's  potential  strength.  That  he 
should  so  instantly  like  his  wife's  protege  raised  that 
charming  lady's  fine  judgment  even  higher  in  his 
estimation.  A  man  always  respects  his  wife's  judg- 
ment more  when  it  tallies  with  his  own  convictions. 

The  Hemingways  insisted  that  Peter  should  spend 
some  time  in  England.  Mrs.  Hemingway  was  going 
over  to  Paris  presently,  and  he  could  accompany  her. 
In  the  meantime  she  wanted  him  to  meet  certain  Eng- 
lish friends  of  hers.  Peter  was  perfectly  willing  to 
wait.  He  was  enchanted  with  London,  and  although 
he  would  have  preferred  to  be  turned  foot-loose  to 
prowl  indefinitely,  his  affection  for  Mrs.  Hemingway 
made  him  amenable  to  her  discipline.  At  her  com- 
mand he  went  with  Hemingway  to  the  latter 's  tailor. 
To  please  her  he  duteously  obeyed  Hemingway's  fas- 
tidious instructions  as  to  habiliments.  He  overcame 
his  rooted  aversion  to  meeting  strangers,  and  when 
bidden  appeared  in  her  drawing-room,  and  there  met 
smart,  clever,  and  noted  London. 

Hemingway  thereafter  marked  his  progress  with 
amusement  not  unmixed  with"  amazement.  It  came 
to  him  that  there  was  a  greater  difference,  a  deeper 
divergence  between  himself  and  Peter  than  between 
Peter  and  these  Britishers.  The  earmark  of  your 
coast-born  South  Carolinian  is  the  selfsame,  absolute 
sureness  of  himself,  his  place,  his  people,  in  the  essen- 
tial scheme  of  things.  Was  n't  he  born  in  South  Caro- 
lina? Hasn't  he  relatives  in  Charleston?  Very 
well,  then ! 


HIS  GRANDMOTHER'S  HOUSE          187 

In  Peter's  case  this  essential  sureness  had  devel- 
oped into  a  courtesy  so  instinctive,  a  democracy  so 
unaffectedly  sincere,  that  it  flavored  his  whole  per- 
sonality with  a  pleasing  distinctiveness.  The  British 
do  not  expect  their  very  young  men  to  be  too  know- 
ing or  too  fatally  bright;  they  mark  the  promise 
rather  than  the  performance  of  youth,  and  spaciously 
allow  time  for  the  process  of  development.  And  so 
Peter  Champneys  found  himself  curiously  at  home 
in  democratically  oligarchic  England. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  were  visiting  my  grandmother's 
house,"  he  confided  to  a  certain  lady  next  whom  he 
was  seated  at  one  of  Mrs.  Hemingway's  small  din- 
ners. 

"And  where  is  your  mother's  house?"  wondered 
the  lady,  who  found  herself  attracted  to  him. 

"Over  home  in  Riverton,"  said  Peter  Champneys. 
And  his  face  went  wistful,  remembering  the  little 
town  with  the  tide-water  gurgling  in  its  coves,  and  its 
great  oaks  hung  with  long  gray  swaying  moss,  and  the 
sinuous  lines  of  the  marshes  against  sky  and  water, 
and  the  smell  of  the  sea — all  the  mellow  magic  of  the 
coast  that  was  Home.  It  didn't  occur  to  him  that 
an  English  lady  mightn't  know  just  where  "over 
home  in  Riverton"  might  be.  She  was  so  great  a 
lady  that  she  did  n't  ask.  She  looked  at  him  and  said 
thoughtfully : 

"I  wonder  if  you  wouldn't  like  to  see  an  old  place 
of  ours.  I  'm  having  the  Hemingways  down  for  a 
week,  and  I  should  like  you  to  come  with  them." 
And  she  added,  with  a  charming  smile:  "As  you 


188  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

are  an  artist,  you  '11  like  our  gallery.  There  'a  a  Rem- 
brandt you  should  see." 

Peter's  eyes  of  a  sudden  went  deep  and  golden, 
and  their  dazzling  depths  had  so  instant  and  so  sweet 
a  recognition  that  her  heart  leaped  in  answer.  It 
was  as  if  a  young  archangel  had  secretly  signaled  her 
in  passing. 

"When  the  formal  invitation  arrived,  Mrs.  Heming- 
way was  delighted  with  what  she  termed  Peter's  good 
fortune.  The  invitations  to  that  house  were  coveted 
and  prized  she  explained.  Really,  Peter  Champneys 
was  unusually  lucky !  She  felt  deeply  gratified. 

Peter  hadn't  known  that  there  existed  anywhere 
on  earth  anything  quite  so  perfect  as  the  life  in  a 
great  English  country  house.  He  thought  that  per- 
haps the  vanished  plantation  life  of  the  old  South 
might  have  approximated  it.  His  delight  in  the  fine 
old  Tudor  pile,  in  its  ordered  stateliness,  its  mellowed 
beauty,  pleased  his  hostess  and  won  the  regard  of  the 
rather  grumpy  gentleman  who  happened  to  be  her 
husband  and  its  owner.  To  her  surprise,  he  took 
Peter  under  his  wing,  and  showed  himself  as  much 
interested  in  this  modest  guest  as  he  was  ordinarily 
indifferent  to  many  more  important  ones.  It  was  his 
custom  to  take  what  he  called  a  stroll  before  break- 
fast— a  matter  of  a  mere  eight  or  ten  miles,  maybe — 
and  he  found  to  his  hand  a  young  man  with  walking 
legs,  seeing  eyes,  and  but  a  modicum  of  tongue.  He 
showed  Peter  that  country-side  with  the  thorough- 
ness of  a  boy  birds '-nesting,  as  Peter  had  once  showed 
the  Carolina  country-side  to  Claribel  Spring.  They 


HIS  GRANDMOTHER'S  HOUSE          189 

went  over  the  venerable  house  with  the  same  thorough- 
ness, and  Peter  sensed  the  owner's  impersonally  per- 
sonal delight  in  the  stewardship  of  a  priceless  posses- 
sion. He  held  it  in  trust,  and  he  loved  it  with  a 
quiet  passion  that  was  as  much  a  part  of  himself  as 
was  his  English  speech.  Every  now  and  then  he 
would  pause  before  some  rusty  sword,  or  maybe  a 
tattered  and  dusty  banner;  and  although  he  was  of  a 
very  florid  complexion,  and  his  nose  was  even  bigger 
than  Peter's,  in  such  moments  there  was  that  in  the 
eye  and  brow,  in  the  expression  of  the  firm  lips,  that 
made  him  more  than  handsome  in  the  young  man's 
sight.  Through  him  he  glimpsed  that  something  si- 
lent and  large  and  fine  that  is  England. 

"And  we  're  going,"  said  the  nobleman,  pausing 
before  the  portrait  of  a  gentleman  who  had  fallen  at 
Marston  Moor.  "Oh,  yes,  we  are  vanishing.  After 
a  while  the  great  breed  of  English  gentlemen  will  be 
as  extinct  as  the  dodo.  And  this  house  will  be  turned 
into  a  Dispensary  for  Dyspeptic  Proletarians,  or  more 
probably  an  American  named  Cohen  will  buy  it  and 
explain  to  his  guests  at  dinner  just  how  much  it  cost 
him." 

Peter  remembered  broken  and  vine-grown  chimneys 
where  stately  homes  had  stood,  the  extinction  of  a 
romantic  plantation  life,  the  vanishing  of  the  gentle- 
men of  the  old  South,  as  the  Champneys  had  van- 
ished. They  had  taken  with  them  something  never  to 
be  replaced  in  American  life,  perhaps;  but  hadn't 
that  vanished  something  made  room  for  a  something 
else  intrinsically  better  and  sounder,  because  based 


190  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

on  a  larger  conception  of  freedom  and  justice?  The 
American  looked  at  the  cavalier's  haughty,  handsome 
face ;  he  looked  at  the  Englishman  thoughtfully. 

"Yes.  You  will  go,"  he  agreed  presently.  "All 
things  pass.  That  is  the  law.  In  the  end  it  is  a 
good  law." 

"I  should  think  it  would  altogether  depend  on 
what  replaces  us,"  said  the  other,  dryly. 

"And  that,"  said  Peter,  "altogether  depends  upon 
you,  doesn't  it?  It  's  in  your  power  to  shape  it,  you 
know.  However,  if  you  '11  notice,  things  somehow 
manage  to  right  themselves  in  spite  of  us.  Now,  over 
home  in  Carolina  we  haven't  come  out  so  very  badly, 
all  things  considered." 

"Got  jolly  well  licked,  didn't  you?"  asked  the 
Englishman,  whose  outstanding  idea  of  American 
military  history  centered  upon  Stonewall  Jackson. 

"Just  about  wiped  off  the  slate.  Had  to  begin  all 
over,  in  a  world  turned  upside  down.  Yet,  you  see, 
here  I  am !  And  I  assure  you  I  should  n't  be  willing 
to  change  places  with  my  grandfather."  With  a 
shy  friendliness  he  laid  his  fingers  for  a  moment  on 
his  host's  arm.  "Your  grandson  won't  be  willing 
to  change,  either,  because  he  '11  be  the  right  sort. 
That  's  what  your  kind  hands  down."  He  spoke 
diffidently,  but  with  a  certain  authority.  Each  man 
is  a  sieve  through  which  life  sifts  experiences,  leaving 
the  garnering  of  grain  and  the  blowing  away  of  chaff 
to  the  man  himself.  Peter  had  garnered  courage  to 
face  with  a  quiet  heart  things  as  they  are.  He  had 


HIS  GRANDMOTHER'S  HOUSE          191 

never  accepted  the  general  view  of  things  as  final, 
therefore  he  escaped  disillusionment. 

"They  thought  the  end  of  the  world  had  come — 
my  people.  So  it  had — for  them.  But  not  for  us. 
There  's  always  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth  for 
those  who  come  after,"  he  finished. 

The  Englishman  smiled  twistedly.  After  a  while 
he  said  unexpectedly: 

"I  wish  you  'd  have  a  try  at  my  portrait,  Mr. 
Champneys.  I  think  I  'd  like  that  tentative  grand- 
son of  mine  to  see  the  sort  of  grandfather  he  really 
possessed." 

"Why,  I  haven't  had  any  training!  But  if  you  '11 
sit  for  me  I  '11  do  some  sketches  of  you,  gladly." 

"Why  not  now?"  asked  the  other,  coolly.  "I 
have  a  fancy  to  see  what  you  '11  make  of  me."  He 
added  casually:  "Whistler  used  the  north  room  over 
the  stables  when  he  stayed  here.  You  've  seen  his 
pastels,  and  the  painting  of  my  father." 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  reverently.  And  he  stared  at 
his  host,  round-eyed. 

"We  've  never  changed  the  room  since  his  time. 
Should  you  like  to  look  over  it  now?  You  '11  find 
all  the  materials  you  are  likely  to  need, — my  sister 
has  a  pretty  little  talent  of  her  own,  and  it  pleases  her 
to  use  the  place." 

"Why,  yes,  if  you  like,"  murmured  Peter,  dazedly. 
And  like  one  in  a  dream  he  followed  his  stocky  host 
to  the  room  over  the  stables.  One  saw  why  the  artist 
had  selected  it;  it  made  an  ideal  studio.  A  small 


192  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

canvas,  untouched,  was  already  in  place  on  an  easel 
near  a  window.  One  or  two  ladylike  landscapes 
leaned  against  the  wall. 

"She  has  the  talent  of  a  painstaking  copyist,"  said 
her  brother,  nodding  at  his  sister's  work.  "Shall 
you  use  oils,  or  do  you  prefer  chalks,  or  water- 
colors  ? ' ' 

' '  Oils, ' '  decided  Peter,  examining  the  canvas.  ' '  It 
will  be  rough  work,  remember."  He  made  his  prep- 
arations, turned  upon  his  sitter  the  painter's  knife- 
like  stare,  and  plunged  into  work.  It  was  swift  work, 
and  perhaps  roughly  done,  as  he  had  said,  but  by  the 
miracle  of  genius  he  managed  to  catch  and  fix  upon 
his  canvas  the  tenacious  and  indomitable  soul  of  the 
Englishman.  You  saw  it  looking  out  at  you  from  the 
steady,  light  blue  eyes  in  the  plain  face  with  its 
craggy  nose  and  obstinate  chin ;  and  you  saw  the  kind- 
ness and  delicacy  of  the  firm  mouth.  There  he  stood, 
flat-footed,  easy  in  his  well-worn  clothes,  one  hand 
in  his  pocket,  the  other  holding  the  blackthorn  walk- 
ing-stick he  always  carried,  and  looked  at  you  with 
the  quiet  sureness  of  integrity  and  of  power.  Peter 
added  a  few  last  touches;  and  then,  instead  of  sign- 
ing his  name,  he  painted  in  a  small  Red  Admiral, 
this  with  such  exquisite  fidelity  that  you  might  think 
that  gay  small  rover  had  for  a  moment  alighted  upon 
the  canvas  and  would  in  another  moment  fly  away 
again. 

His  lordship  studied  his  painted  semblance  crit- 
ically. 

"I  rather  thought  you  could  do  it,"  he  said  quietly. 


HIS  GRANDMOTHER'S  HOUSE         193 

"I  usually  manage,  as  you  Americans  say,  to  pick  a 
winner.  You  '11  be  a  great  painter  if  you  really  want 
to  be  one,  Mr.  Champneys.  Should  you  say  sixty 
guineas  would  be  a  fair  price  for  this?" 

"That  's  something  like  three  hundred  dollars, 
isn't  it?"  asked  Peter,  interestedly.  "Suppose  we 
call  this  a  preliminary  sketch  for  a  portrait  I  'm  to 
paint  later — say  when  I  Ve  had  a  few  years  of  train- 
ing." 

"You  will  charge  me  very  much  more  than  sixty 
guineas  for  a  portrait,  two  or  three  years  from  now," 
said  the  other,  smiling.  He  looked  at  the  swiftly 
done,  vivid  bit  of  work.  "This  is  what  I  want  for 
my  grandson;  it  is  his  grandfather  as  nature  made 
him.  It  is  as  true  and  as  homely  as  life  itself."  And 
he  looked  at  Peter  respectfully,  so  that  that  young 
man  blushed  to  his  ears.  And  that  is  how  and  when 
Peter  Champneys  painted  his  first  ordered  picture, 
signed  with  the  Red  Admiral;  and  how  he  won  the 
faithful  friendship  of  a  crusty  Englishman.  It  was  a 
very  real  friendship.  His  lordship  had  what  he  him- 
self called  a  country  heart,  and  as  Peter  Champneys 
had  the  same  sort,  and  neither  man  outraged  the 
other  by  too  much  talk,  they  got  along  astonishingly 
well. 

"He  's  deucedly  intelligent,"  his  lordship  ex- 
plained, with  quiet  enthusiasm.  "We  '11  tramp  for 
miles,  and  I  give  you  my  word  that  for  an  hour  on 
end  he  won't  say  three  words!" 

Hemingway,  to  whom  this  confidence  was  given, 
chuckled.  It  amused  him  to  watch  his  wife's  wild 


194  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

goose  putting  on  native  swan  feathers.  Yet  it  pleased 
him,  for  he  knew  the  boy  appealed  to  her  romantic 
as  well  as  to  her  maternal  instinct.  She  handled  him 
skilfully,  and  it  was  she  who  passed  upon  his  invita- 
tions. She  wished  him  to  meet  clever  and  brilliant 
men  and  women;  and  at  times  she  left  him  in  the 
hands  of  young  girls,  pink-and-white  visions  who 
troubled  as  well  as  interested  him.  He  felt  that  he 
was  really  meeting  them  under  false  pretenses.  Their 
youth  called  to  his,  but  he  might  not  answer.  Be- 
tween him  and  youth  stood  that  unloved  and  unlovely 
girl  in  America. 

Mrs.  Hemingway  watched  him  with  the  eyes  of  the 
woman  who  has  a  young  man  upon  her  hands.  His 
reactions  to  his  contacts  interested  her  immensely. 
His  worldly  education  was  progressing  with  entire 
satisfaction  to  her. 

"I  want  him  to  marry  an  English  wife,"  she  con- 
fided to  her  husband.  They  were  to  leave  for  Paris 
that  night,  and  she  was  summing  up  the  results  of  his 
stay  in  London,  the  balance  being  altogether  in  his 
favor.  "A  well-bred,  normal  English  girl  with  good 
connections,  a  girl  entirely  untroubled  by  tempera- 
ment, who  will  love  him  tenderly,  look  out  for  his 
physical  well-being,  and  fill  his  house  with  healthy 
children,  is  exactly  what  Peter  Champneys  needs. 
And  the  sooner  it  happens  to  him  the  better.  Peter 
has  a  lonely  soul.  It  should  n  't  be  allowed  to  become 
chronic. ' ' 

Hemingway  looked  at  her  apprehensively. 
"Sounds  to  me  as  if  you  were  trying  to  make  Peter 


HIS  GRANDMOTHER'S  HOUSE         195 

pick  a  peck  of  pickled  peppers,"  he  commented. 
And  Peter  coming  in  at  this  opportune  moment,  he 
grinned  at  the  boy  cheerfully. 

"Peter,"  he  smiled,  "the  sweet  chime  of  merry 
wedding-bells  in  the  distance  falls  softly  on  mine  ear ; 
my  wife  thinks  you  should  be  altar-broke.  Charm- 
ing domestic  interior,  happy  fireside  clime,  flag  of 
our  union  fluttering  from  the  patent  clothes-line! 
Futurist  painting  of  Young  Artist  Pushing  a  Pram ! 
Don't  look  at  me  with  such  an  agonized  expression 
of  the  ears,  Peter ! ' ' 

But  Peter  had  no  answering  smile.  His  face  had 
changed,  and  there  was  that  in  his  eyes  which  gave 
Hemingway  pause. 

"Why,  old  chap,  I  was  merely  joking!"  he  began, 
with  real  concern. 

"Peter!"  said  the  woman,  softly.  "You  have  had 
— a  disappointment?  But,  my  dear  boy,  you  are  so 
very  young.  Don't  take  it  too  much  to  heart,  Peter. 
At  your  age  nothing  is  final,  really. ' '  And  she  smiled 
at  him. 

A  flush  suffused  the  young  man's  forehead.  He 
felt  shamed  and  miserable.  He  couldn't  flaunt  his 
price-tag  before  these  unbuyable  souls  whose  beautiful 
and  true  marriage  was  based  upon  love,  and  sym- 
pathy, and  mutual  ideals!  He  couldn't  rattle  his 
chains,  or  explain  Anne  Champneys.  He  couldn't, 
indeed,  force  himself  to  speak  of  her  at  all.  The  thing 
was  bad  enough,  but  to  talk  about  it —  No!  He 
lifted  troubled  eyes. 

"I  am  afraid — in  my  case — it  is  final,"  he  said,  in 


196  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

a  low  voice.  And  after  a  pause,  in  a  louder  tone: 
"Yes — please  understand — it  is  final." 

"Oh,  Peter  dear,  I  'm  sorry!    But—" 

"You  're  talking  nonsense.  Why,  you  're  barely 
twenty-one!"  protested  Hemingway.  "Much  water 
must  flow  under  the  bridge,  Peter,  before  you  can 
say  of  anything:  it  is  final.  You  've  got  a  long  life 
ahead  of  you  to — " 

"Work  in,"  finished  Peter.  "Yes,  I  know  that. 
I  have  my  chance  to  work.  That  is  enough."  At 
that  his  head  went  up. 

Mrs.  Hemingway  puckered  her  brows.  She  leaned 
toward  him,  her  eyes  lighting  up. 

"Peter!"  said  she,  mischievously,  her  cheek  dim- 
pling. "Peter,  aren't  you  rather  leaving  the  Red 
Admiral  out  of  your  calculations  ? ' ' 


CHAPTER  XII 

"NOT  BY  BREAD  ALONE" 

MRS.  PETER  CHAMPNEYS  drove  away 
from  the  scene  of  her  wedding,  feeling  as 
if  boiling  water  had  been  poured  over  her. 
No  man  of  all  the  men  she  had  ever  met  had  looked 
at  her  with  just  such  an  expression  as  she  had  en- 
countered in  Peter  Champneys's  eyes,  and  the  mem- 
ory of  it  filled  her  with  a  rankling  sense  of  injustice. 
He  had  married  her  for  the  same  reason  she  had 
married  him,  hadn't  he?  Then  why  should  he  think 
himself  a  whit  better  than  she  was?  It  seemed  to 
her  that  all  the  unkindness,  all  the  slights  she  had 
ever  endured,  had  come  to  a  head  in  Peter's  distressed 
and  astonished  glance. 

Nancy  had  no  illusions  as  to  her  own  personal  ap- 
pearance, but  it  occurred  to  her  that  her  bridegroom 
left  considerable  to  be  desired  in  that  respect,  him- 
self. With  his  hatchet  face  and  his  outstanding  ears 
and  his  big  nose — why,  he  was  as  homely  as  that  dried 
old  priest  in  the  glass  case  in  the  museum ! — and  him 
looking  down  on  people  every  mite  as  good  as  he 
was !  That  was  really  the  crux  of  the  thing :  Nancy 
had  her  own  pride,  and  Peter  had  managed  to  tram- 
197 


198  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

pie  upon  it  roughshod.  She  felt  she  could  never  for- 
give him,  and  her  sense  of  injury  included  Chadwick 
Champneys  as  well.  She  hadn't  asked  him  to  make 
his  nephew  marry  her,  had  she?  The  suggestion  had 
come  from  the  Champneys,  not  from  her.  Yet  it 
was  plain  to  her  that  both  these  men  considered  her  a 
very  inferior  person.  She  could  n't  understand  them. 

She  liked  the  furnished  apartment  she  and  Mr. 
Champneys  were  to  occupy  until  their  house  was 
ready,  better  than  she  had  liked  the  hotel,  though  the 
Japanese  butler,  Hoichi,  overawed  her.  She  wasn't 
used  to  Japanese  butlers  and  she  did  n't  know  exactly 
how  to  treat  this  suave,  deft,  silent  yellow  man  who 
was  so  efficient  and  so  ubiquitous.  It  was  different 
where  the  maids  were  concerned;  she  who  had  been 
so  lately  an  unpaid  drudge  was  afraid  these  trained, 
clever  servants  might  suspect  her  former  state  of 
servitude  and  she  covered  her  fear  with  a  manner  so 
insupportable  that  Mr.  Chadwick  Champneys,  who 
looked  upon  arrogant  rudeness  to  social  inferiors  as 
a  sort  of  eighth  deadly  sin,  was  presently  forced  to 
remonstrate. 

"Nancy,"  he  ventured  one  morning,  "I  have  been 
observing  your  manner  to  the  servants  with — er — 
disapproval.  A  habitual  lack  of  consideration  is  a 
serious  deficiency.  It  is  really  a  lack  of  breeding — 
and  of  heart.  A  lady" — he  fixed  his  large  dark  eyes 
upon  her — "is  never  impolite." 

He  touched  her  on  the  quick.  She  knew  these 
Champneys  did  n  't  think  she  was  a  lady,  but  for 
this  old  man  to  come  right  out  and  say  so  to  her 


"NOT  BY  BREAD  ALONE"  199 

face —  "Say,  I  guess  I  know  how  to  be  a  lady  with- 
out you  havin'  to  tell  me!" 

"I  am  more  than  willing  to  be  convinced,"  said  the 
South  Carolinian,  pointedly. 

At  that,  of  a  sudden,  Nancy  flared.  She  lifted  a 
pair  of  sullen  and  mutinous  eyes,  and  her  lips  quiv- 
ered. He  saw  with  surprise  that  she  was  trembling. 

"Say,  you  look  here — I  done  what  you  told  me  to 
do,  didn't  I?  I  ain't  no  more  nor  no  less  a  lady 
than  I  was  before  I  done  it,  am  I?  What  you  pickin' 
on  me  for,  then?  What  more  you  want?" 

He  sighed.  Milly's  niece  was  distinctly  difficult, 
to  say  the  least.  How,  he  asked  himself  desperately, 
was  one  to  make  a  dent  in  her  appalling  ignorance? 
She  irritated  him.  And  as  is  usual  with  people  who 
do  not  understand,  he  took  exactly  the  wrong  course 
with  her. 

"I  want  you  at  least  to  try  to  live  up  to  your  posi- 
tion," he  said  with  cold  directness,  beetling  his  brows 
at  her.  "I  want  you  to  do  what  you  're  told — and 
to  keep  on  doing  it!  Do  you  understand  that?" 
He  felt  that  he  was  allowing  himself  to  be  more 
wrought  up  than  was  good  for  him,  and  this  added  to 
his  annoyance. 

She  considered  this,  sullenly.  "I  'm  not  exackly 
straight  in  my  mind  what  I  understand  and  what  I 
don't  understand,  yet,"  she  replied.  "But  I  got  this 
much  straight :  If  I  done  what  I  done  to  please  you, 
I  done  it  to  please  me,  too!" 

This  was  logical  enough ;  it  had  even  a  note  of  com- 
mon sense  and  justice.  But  her  crude  method  of  ex- 


200  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

pressing  it  filled  him  with  cold  fury.  The  Champ- 
neys  temper  strained  at  the  leash. 

"Ah!"  said  he,  a  dark  flush  staining  his  face, 
"ah!  Then  get  this  straight,  too:  you  '11  please  me 
only  if  you  carry  out  your  part  of  our  contract. 
"What!  do  you  dream  I  would  ruin  my  nephew's  life 
for  a  self-willed,  undisciplined  minx?  Nothing  could 
be  farther  from  my  thoughts!  Nancy,  /  made  you 
Mrs.  Peter  Champneys :  you  will  qualify  for  the  posi- 
tion—or lose  it!"  He  tapped  his  foot  on  the  floor, 
and  glared  at  her. 

Nancy  gave  him  glare  for  glare.  "Yeah,  you  said 
it!  You  made  me  Mrs.  Peter  Champneys,  and  all  I 
got  to  do  is  to  do  what  I  don't  want  to  do,  to  hold 
down  the  job!  What  you  askin'  him  to  do  to  please 
met  How  's  he  qualifyin'?  Is  he  so  much  I  'm 
nothin'?  Because  that  's  what  he  thinks!  Oh,  you 
needn't  talk!  I  guess  I  got  eyes,  at  least!" 

"I  suggest  that  you  use  them  to  your  own  advan- 
tage, then,"  said  he,  disgustedly.  "Let  us  have  done 
with  such  squabbling!  You  agreed  to  obey.  Very 
well,  then,  you  will  do  so,  or  I  shall  take  steps  to  put 
you  outside  of  my  calculations.  In  other  words,  I 
will  wash  my  hands  of  you.  Is  that  perfectly  clear 
to  you  ? ' '  How  else,  he  asked  himself,  was  he  to  make 
her  understand? 

She  saw  that  he  was  in  a  towering  rage,  and  she 
reflected  that  if  she  had  made  Baxter  that  mad  he  'd 
have  banged  her  with  his  fists.  For  a  long  minute 
the  two  stared  at  each  other.  She  was  about  to  make 
a  defiant  reply  and  let  come  what  might,  when  a  sort 


"NOT  BY  BREAD  ALONE"  201 

of  spasm  distorted  his  face.  His  mouth  opened  gasp- 
ingly, his  eyes  rolled  back  in  his  head  like  a  dying 
man's.  He  seemed  to  crumple  up,  and  she  caught 
him  as  he  fell.  Her  terrified  shriek  brought  Hoichi, 
who  took  instant  charge  of  the  situation.  He  made 
the  unconscious  man  comfortable  on  a  divan,  applied 
such  restoratives  as  were  at  hand,  and  directed  a 
frightened  maid  to  telephone  for  physicians. 

Nancy  fled  to  her  own  room,  and  sat  on  the  edge  of 
her  bed,  frightened  and  subdued.  That  quarrel  and 
its  serious  effect  made  a  turning-point  in  her  lifer 
though  she  attached  no  blame  to  herself  for  the  man's 
illness.  She  had  no  love  for  him,  but  her  heart  was 
not  callous  to  suffering,  and  his  distorted  and  agonized 
face  had  terrified  and  shocked  her. 

The  suddenness  of  the  seizure  made  his  words  more 
impressive.  Suppose  he  died :  what  of  her  ?  She  was 
not  sure  that  any  definite  provision  had  as  yet  been 
made  for  her.  What,  then,  should  she  do? 

Suppose  he  recovered :  what  then  ?  She  had  cause 
for  serious  thought.  All  this  luxury  and  ease,  this 
pleasant  life  of  plenty,  in  which  she  reveled  with  the 
deep  delight  of  one  quite  unused  to  it,  hung  upon  a 
contingency — the  contingency  of  absolute  obedience. 
She  was  not  naturally  supine,  and  her  spirit  rose 
against  an  unconditional  self-surrender  to  a  hot-tem- 
pered, imperious  old  man,  who  would  mold  her  to  his 
will,  make  her  over  to  his  own  notions,  quite  as  high- 
handedly as  if  she  'd  been  a  lump  of  putty  and  not  a 
human  being.  Nancy  tasted  the  bitterness  of  having 
no  voice  in  the  making  of  her  own  destiny. 


202  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

Well,  but  suppose  she  defied  him!  He  was  quite 
capable  of  washing  his  hands  of  her,  just  as  he  had 
threatened.  And  then?  Before  that  possibility 
Nancy  recoiled.  No.  She  could  n't,  she  would  n't  go 
back  to  that  old  life  of  squalid  slavery — eating  bad 
food,  wearing  wretched  clothes,  suffering  all  the  sod- 
den and  sordid  misery  of  the  ignorant,  abjectly  poor, 
a  suffering  twice  as  poignant  now  that  she  knew  bet- 
ter things.  She  knew  poverty  too  well  to  have  any 
illusions  about  it.  The  Baxter  kitchen  rose  before 
her.  Why!  while  she  was  sitting  here  now,  in  this 
luxurious  room,  back  there  they  'd  be  getting  ready 
for  the  noonday  dinner.  The  close  kitchen  would  be 
reeking  with  the  odor  of  boiling  potatoes  and  cabbage, 
from  which  a  greasy  steam  would  be  arising,  so  that 
one  saw  things  as  through  a  hot  mist.  One  of  the 
children  would  be  screaming,  somewhere  about  the 
house,  and  Mrs.  Baxter,  in  an  unsavory  wrapper,  her 
lace  streaming  with  perspiration,  her  hair  in  sticky 
strands  on  her  hot  forehead,  would  be  shrilly  threat- 
ening personal  chastisement:  "You  shut  up,  out 
there!  Just  you  wait  till  I  get  this  batch  o'  biscuits 
off  my  hands  an'  I  bet  I  fix  you!  Did  n't  I  say  shut 
up?"  The  hateful  voice  seemed  so  close  to  Nancy's 
ear  that  the  girl  shrank  back,  shivering  with  distaste. 

She  fingered  the  soft,  fine  stuff  of  the  frock  she  was 
wearing.  She  stared  about  the  room, — her  room, 
which  she  did  n't  have  to  share  with  one  of  the  Bax- 
ter children,  who  squirmed  and  kicked  all  night  in 
summer,  and  pulled  the  bed-coverings  off  her  in  win- 
ter. She  went  over  to  her  dressing-table  and  fingered 


"NOT  BY  BREAD  ALONE"  203 

its  pretty  accessories,  sniffing  with  childish  pleasure 
the  delicately  scented  powder  and  cologne.  She 
looked  at  her  reflection  in  the  mirror,  and  scowled. 
Then  she  began  to  walk  restlessly  up  and  down  the 
room.  She  had  to  think  this  thing  out. 

"Why  should  she  go,  and  leave  the  road  clear  for 
Peter  Champneys?  It  occurred  to  her  that,  seen 
from  his  point  of  view,  her  elimination  from  the 
scene  might  be  regarded  somewhat  in  the  light  of 
providential  interference  in  his  behalf.  She  flushed. 
It  was  n  't  fair !  The  thought  of  Peter  Champneys 
was  gall  and  wormwood  to  her. 

Nancy  wasn't  a  fool.  Her  honesty  had  a  blunt 
directness,  a  sort  of  cave-woman  frankness.  In  her, 
truthfulness  was  not  so  much  a  virtue  as  an  energy. 
The  hardness  of  her  unloved  life  had  bred  a  like 
hardness  in  her  sense  of  values;  she  was  distrustful 
and  suspicious  because  she  had  never  had  occasion  to 
be  anything  else.  In  that  suspicion  and  distrustful- 
ness  had  lain  her  safety.  She  had  no  sense  of  spir- 
itual values  as  yet.  Religion  had  meant  going  to 
church  on  Sundays  when  you  had  clean  clothes  in 
which  to  appear.  Morals  had  meant  being  good,  and 
to  Nancy  being  good  simply  meant  not  being  bad — 
and  you  couldn't  be  bad,  go  wrong,  if  you  never 
trusted  any  man.  A  girl  that  trusted  none  of  'em 
could  keep  respectable.  Nancy  had  seen  girls  who 
trusted  men,  in  her  time.  Nothing  like  that  for  her! 
But  she  knew,  also,  the  price  the  woman  pays  whether 
she  trusts  or  distrusts,  and  the  matrimony  which  at 
times  rewarded  the  distrustful  didn't  appear  much 


204  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

more  alluring  than  the  potter's  field  which  waited 
for  the  credulous.  Anyway  you  looked  at  it,  what 
happened  was  n  't  pleasant.  And  it  was  worse  yet 
when  you  knew  there  was  something  better  and  dif- 
ferent. You  had  to  pay  a  price  to  get  that  some- 
thing better  and  different,  of  course.  The  fact  that 
one  pays  for  everything  one  gets  was  coming  home  to 
Nancy  with  increasing  force;  the  problem,  then,  was 
to  get  your  money's  worth. 

She  took  her  head  in  her  hands,  and  tried  to  con- 
centrate all  her  faculties.  She  was  n 't  a  shirker,  and 
she  realized  that  she  must  decide  upon  her  course  of 
conduct  now  and  stick  to  it.  If  she  did  n 't  look  out 
for  herself,  who  would?  And  presently  she  had 
reached  the  conclusion  that  when  Mr.  Peter  Champ- 
neys  reappeared  upon  the  scene,  he  must  find  Mrs. 
Peter  Champneys  occupying  the  foreground,  and  oc- 
cupying it  creditably,  too.  She  'd  do  it !  When  Mr. 
Chadwick  Champneys  recovered,  she  'd  come  to  terms 
with  him.  She  'd  keep  faith. 

She  spent  three  or  four  anxious  days,  while  special- 
ists came  and  went,  and  white-capped,  starched,  au- 
thoritative personages  relieved  each  other  in  the  sick- 
room, their  answers  to  all  queries  being  that  the 
patient  was  doing  quite  as  well  as  could  be  expected. 
At  the  end  of  the  fifth  day  they  admitted  that  the 
patient  was  recovering, — was,  in  fact,  out  of  danger, 
though  he  wouldn't  leave  his  room  for  another  week 
or  ten  days;  and  he  wasn't  to  be  worried  or  dis- 
turbed about  anything. 

Satisfied,  then,  that  he  was  on  the  highroad  to  re- 


"NOT  BY  BREAD  ALONE"  205 

covery,  and  having  made  up  her  mind  as  to  her  own 
course  of  procedure,  Nancy  rather  enjoyed  these  few 
days  of  comparative  freedom.  She  supplied  herself 
with  a  huge  box  of  bonbons,  "  Junie's  Love  Test"  and 
"The  Widowed  Bride," — books  beg^n  long  ago,  but 
wrested  from  her  untimely  by  the  ruthless  Mrs.  Bax- 
ter, on  the  score  of  takin'  her  time  off  her  rightful 
work  for  them  that  'd  took  her  in,  and  fillin'  her  red 
head  with  the  f oolishest  sort  o '  notions.  She  had  had 
so  much  to  do  that  to  have  nothing  to  do  but  lie 
around  in  a  red  silk  kimona  and  nibble  chocolates 
and  read  love  stories,  seemed  to  her  the  supreme 
height  of  felicity. 

She  reveled  in  these  novels.  They  represented  that 
something  different  toward  which  her  untutored  and 
stinted  heart  groped  blindly.  Otherwise  her  mind,  by 
no  means  a  poor  one,  lay  fallow  and  untilled.  The 
beauty  and  wonder  of  the  world,  the  pity  and  terror 
of  fate,  the  divine  agony  of  love  which  sacrifices  and 
endures,  did  not  as  yet  exist  for  her.  She  merely 
sensed  that  there  was  something  different,  some- 
where— maybe  on  the  road  ahead.  And  so  she  wept 
over  the  woes  of  star-crost  lovers,  and  sentimentalized 
over  husky  heroes  utterly  unlike  any  male  beings 
known  to  nature,  and  believed  she  did  n't  believe  that 
disinterested  and  unselfish  love  existed  in  the  world. 
As  she  hadn't  the  faintest  gleam  of  self-knowledge, 
in  all  this  she  was  perfectly  sincere. 

She  did  not  see  Mr.  Champneys  for  two  weeks  or 
so.  In  his  nervous  condition  he  evinced  a  singular 
reluctance  to  have  her  come  near  him,  although  others 


206  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

saw  him  daily.  For  instance,  Mr.  Jason  Vandef- 
velde  appeared  at  half  after  ten  o'clock  every  morn- 
ing during  his  client 's  convalescence,  was  immediately 
admitted  to  Mr.  Champney's  room,  and  left  it  upon 
the  stroke  of  eleven. 

Nancy  watched  this  man  curiously.  When  he  met 
her  in  the  hall,  he  spoke  to  her  in  a  nice,  full-toned, 
modulated  voice,  exceedingly  pleasing  to  the  ear.  His 
eyes  were  small  but  of  a  deep  and  bright  blue,  and 
although  he  was  heavily  built  he  wore  his  clothes  so 
well  that  he  gave  the  effect  of  strength  rather  than  of 
clumsiness.  He  was  clean-shaven  and  ruddy,  and  his 
large,  well-shaped  mouth  was  deeply  curled  at  the 
corners.  His  hands  were  not  fat  and  white,  as  one 
might  expect,  but  tanned  and  muscular,  and  slightly 
hairy.  His  glasses  gave  him  a  certain  precision,  and 
his  curled  lips  suggested  irony.  Nancy  liked  to  look 
at  him.  He  discomfited  her  understanding  of  men, 
for,  she  could  n  't  tell  why,  she  both  liked  and  trusted 
him.  There  was  nothing  romantic  about  him, — a  well- 
fed,  well-groomed  lawyer-man  in  his  late  thirties,  with 
a  handsome  wife  in  a  handsome  house, — yet  he  had 
the  faculty  of  making  her  wonder  about  him,  and  won- 
der with  kindness  at  that.  She  wished  she  knew  just 
how  much  he  knew  about  her,  her  early  upbringing, 
her  sad  lack  of  education.  What  had  Mr.  Champ- 
neys  told  him  ?  Or  had  he  really  told  him  anything  ? 

When  her  uncle  finally  overcame  his  reluctance 
and  sent  for  her,  she  entered  his  room  quietly  and 
stood  looking  at  him  with  an  honest  concern  that  was 
in  her  favor.  She  was  always  honest,  he  reflected. 


"NOT  BY  BREAD  ALONE"  207 

There  was  nothing  of  the  hypocrite  or  the  coward  in 
those  wary  gray-green  eyes  that  always  met  one's 
glance  without  flinching. 

The  change  in  his  appearance  shocked  her.  His 
eyes  were  hollow,  his  tall  form  looked  meager  and 
shrunken.  He  was  growing  to  be  an  old  man.  She 
said  awkwardly: 

"I  'm  real  sorry  you  been  so  sick."  And  she  made 
no  attempt  to  apologize  for  her  share  in  the  quarrel 
that  had  led  to  his  seizure.  She  ignored  it  altogether, 
and  for  this  he  was  grateful. 

"Thank  you.  I  am  getting  along  nicely,"  he  said 
civilly.  And  with  a  slightly  impatient  gesture  he  dis- 
missed all  further  mention  of  illness.  He  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  and  closed  his  eyes,  the  better  to  col- 
lect his  thoughts.  He  wished  to  make  his  wishes  per- 
fectly clear  to  her.  But  she  surprised  him  by  say- 
ing quietly: 

"I  been  thinking  things  over  while  you  was  sick, 
and  I  come  to  the  conclusion  you  was  right.  I  got 
to  have  more  education.  There  's  things  I  just  got  to 
know — how  to  talk  nice,  and  what  to  wear,  and  what 
fork  you  'd  ought  to  eat  with.  Forks  and  things  drive 
me  real  wild." 

"I  had  thought,  at  first,  of  sending  you  to  some 
particularly  fine  boarding-school — "  he  began,  but 
Nancy  interrupted  him. 

"If  I  was  six  instead  o'  sixteen,  you  might  do  it. 
As  'tis,  I  wouldn't  learn  nothin'  except  to  hate  the 
girls  that  'd  be  turnin'  up  their  noses  at  me.  No.  I 
don't  want  to  go  to  boardin '-school.  I  've  saw  music- 


208  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

teachers  that  come  to  folks'  houses  to  give  lessons,  and 
I  been  thinkin',  why  can't  you  get  me  a  school- 
teacher that  '11  teach  me  right  at  home  ? ' ' 

"As  I  was  saying  when  interrupted," — he  looked 
at  her  reprovingly — "I  had  at  first  thought  of  send- 
ing you  to  some  finishing  school.  I  gave  up  that  idea 
almost  at  once.  I  agree  with  you  that  it  is  best  you 
should  be  taught  at  home.  In  fact,  I  have  already 
engaged  the  lady  who  will  be  your  companion  as  well 
as  your  teacher. ' ' 

"I  don't  know  as  I  'm  crazy  about  a  lady  com- 
panion as  a  steady  job,"  said  Nancy,  doubtfully. 
She  feared  to  lose  her  new  liberty,  to  forego  the  amaz- 
ing delight  of  living  by  herself,  so  to  speak.  "But 
now  you  've  done  it,  I  sure  hope  you  've  picked  out 
somebody  young.  If  I  got  to  have  a  lady  companion, 
I  want  she  should  be  young." 

"Mr.  Vandervelde  attended  to  the  matter  for  me," 
said  Mr.  Champneys,  in  a  tone  of  finality.  "He  is 
sure  that  the  lady  in  question  is  exactly  the  person 
I  wish.  Mrs.  MacGregor  is  an  Englishwoman,  the 
widow  of  a  naval  officer.  She  is  in  reduced  circum- 
stances, but  of  irreproachable  connections.  She  has 
the  accomplishments  of  a  lady  of  her  class,  and  her 
companionship  should  be  an  inestimable  blessing  to 
you.  You  will  be  governed  by  her  authority.  She 
will  be  here  to-morrow." 

»  "A  ole  widder  woman!  Good  Lord!  I — "  here 
she  stopped,  and  gulped.  An  expression  of  resigna- 
tion came  over  her  countenance.  "Oh,  all  right. 


"NOT  BY  BREAD  ALONE"  209 

You  've  done  it  an'  I  '11  make  the  best  of  it,"  she 
finished,  not  too  graciously. 

"It  is  not  proper  to  refer  to  a  lady  as  'a  ole  widder 
woman'." 

"Well,  but  ain't  she?"  And  she  asked:  "What 
else  you  know  about  her  ? ' ' 

"Mr.  Vandervelde  attended  to  the  matter,"  he  re- 
peated. "He  is  thoroughly  satisfied,  and  that  is 
enough  for  me — and  for  you.  I  sent  for  you  to  in- 
form you  that  she  is  to  be  here  to-morrow.  See  that 
you  receive  her  pleasantly.  Your  hours  of  study  and 
recreation  will  be  arranged  by  her.  She  will  also 
overlook  your  wardrobe.  And,  I  do  not  wish  to  hear 
any  complaints." 

"I  can't  even  pick  out  my  own  clothes?" 

"You  lack  even  the  rudiments  of  good  taste." 

"What  's  wrong  with  my  clothes?"  she  demanded. 
"Everything,"  said  he,  succinctly,  and  with  visible 
irritation.  He  remembered  the  wedding-gown,  and 
his  face  twitched.  She  watched  him  intently. 

"Oh,  all  right.  I  said  I  'd  obey,  an'  I  will.  I 
ain't  forgettin',"  said  she,  wearily. 

"Very  well.  I  am  glad  you  understand."  He 
closed  his  eyes,  and  understanding  that  the  interview 
was  at  an  end,  Nancy  withdrew. 

Mrs.  MacGregor  arrived  on  the  morrow.  The  at- 
torney had  been  given  explicit  orders  and  instructions 
by  his  exacting  client,  who  had  his  own  notions  of 
what  a  teacher  for  his  niece  should  and  shouldn't  be. 
Vandervelde  congratulated  himself  on  having  been 


210  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

able  to  meet  them  so  completely  in  the  person  of  the 
estimable  Mrs.  MacGregor. 

Mr.  Champneys  demanded  a  lady  middle-aged  but 
not  too  middle-aged,  not  overly  handsome,  but  not 
overly  otherwise;  an  excellent  disciplinarian,  of  a 
good  family,  and  with  impeccable  references. 

For  the  rest,  Mrs.  MacGregor  was  a  tall,  spare, 
high-nosed  lady,  with  a  thin-lipped  mouth  full  of 
large,  sound  teeth  of  a  yellowish  tinge,  and  high 
cheek-bones  with  a  permanent  splash  of  red  on  them. 
Her  eyes  were  frosty,  and  her  light  hair  was  frizzled 
in  front,  and  worn  high  on  her  narrow  head.  She 
dressed  in  plain  black  silk  of  good  quality,  wore  her 
watch  at  her  waist,  and  on  her  wrist  a  large,  old- 
fashioned  bracelet  in  which  was  set  a  glass-covered, 
lozenge-shaped  receptable  holding  what  looked  like  a 
wisp  of  bristles,  but  which  was  a  bit  of  the  late  Cap- 
tain MacGregor 's  hair. 

Mr.  Champneys  had  wanted  a  lady  who  was  a 
church  member.  He  had  a  vague  idea  that  if  a  lady 
happened  to  be  a  church  member  you  were  somehow 
or  other  protected  against  her.  Mrs.  MacGregor  was 
orthodox  enough  to  satisfy  the  most  rigid  religionist. 
Mr.  Champneys  gathered  that  she  believed  in  God  the 
father,  God  the  son,  and  God  the  Holy  Ghost,  three 
in  One,  and  that  One  a  dependable  gentleman  beauti- 
fully British,  who  dutifully  protected  the  king,  fra- 
ternally respected  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  and 
the  Prime  Minister,  and  was  heartily  in  favor  of  the 
British  Constitution.  Naturally,  being  a  devout 
woman,  she  agreed  with  Deity. 


"NOT  BY  BREAD  ALONE"  211 

An  American  family  domiciled  for  a  while  in 
England  had  secured  her  services  as  companion  to  an 
elderly  aunt  of  theirs,  fetching  her  along  with  them 
on  their  return  to  America.  The  aunt  had  been  a 
family  torment  until  the  advent  of  Mrs.  MacGregor, 
but  in  the  hands  of  that  disciplinarian  she  bad  become 
a  mild-mannered  old  body.  On  her  demise  the  grate- 
ful family  settled  a  small  annuity  upon  her  whom 
they  couldn't  help  recognizing  as  their  benefactor. 
Finding  Americans  so  grateful,  Mrs.  MacGregor  de- 
cided to  remain  among  them  and  with  her  recom- 
mendations secure  another  position  of  trust  in  some 
wealthy  family.  This,  then,  was  the  teacher  selected 
by  Mr.  Jason  Vendervelde,  who  thought  her  just  what 
Mr.  Champneys  wanted  and '  his  ward  probably 
needed. 

Mrs.  MacGregor  never  really  liked  anybody,  but  she 
could  respect  certain  persons  highly;  she  respected 
Mr.  Chadwick  Champneys  at  sight.  His  name,  his 
appearance,  the  fact  that  Jason  Vandervelde  was  act- 
ing for  him,  convinced  her  that  he  was  "quite  the 
right  sort" — for  an  American.  She  was  as  gracious 
to  him  as  nature  permitted  her  to  be  to  anybody. 
And  the  salary  was  very  good  indeed. 

It  was  only  when  Nancy  put  in  her  appearance 
that  Mrs.  MacGregor 's  satisfaction  withered  around 
the  edges.  The  red  on  her  high  cheeks  deepened,  and 
she  fixed  upon  her  new  pupil  a  cold,  appraising  stare. 
She  made  no  slightest  attempt  to  ingratiate  herself; 
that  wasn't  her  way;  what  she  demanded,  she  often 
said,  was  Respect.  The  impossible  young  person  who 


212  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

was  staring  back  at  her  with  hostile  curiosity  was  n  't 
overcome  with  Respect.  The  two  did  not  love  each 
other. 

Strict  disciplinarian  though  she  might  be  where 
others  were  concerned,  Mrs.  MacGregor  treated  her- 
self with  lenient  consideration.  She  was  selfish  with 
a  fine,  Christian  zeal  that  moved  Nancy  to  admiring 
wonder.  Nancy's  own  selfishness  had  been  superim- 
posed upon  her  by  untoward  circumstances.  This 
woman's  selfishness  was  a  part  of  her  nature,  care- 
fully cultivated.  She  believed  her  body  to  be  the 
temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  she  made  herself  ex- 
ceedingly comfortable  in  the  building,  quite  as  if  the 
Holy  Ghost  were  an  obliging  absentee  landlord. 
Nancy  observed,  too,  that  although  the  servants  did 
not  like  her,  they  obeyed  her  without  question.  She 
got  without  noise  what  she  wanted. 

But  she  really  could  teach.  Almost  from  the  first 
lesson,  Nancy  began  to  learn,  the  pure  hatred  she 
felt  for  her  instructress  adding  rather  than  detract- 
ing from  her  progress.  Had  the  woman  been  broader, 
of  a  finer  nature,  she  might  have  failed  here;  but 
being  what  she  was,  immovable,  hard  as  nails,  narrow 
and  prejudiced,  sticking  relentlessly  to  the  obviously 
essential,  she  goaded  and  stung  the  girl  into  habits  of 
study. 

Her  reaction  to  Mrs.  MacGregor  really  pushed  her 
forward.  She  knew  that  the  woman  could  never  over- 
come a  secret  sense  of  amaze  that  such  a  person  as 
herself  should  be  a  member  of  Chadwick  Champneys's 
family — the  man  was  a  gentleman,  you  see.  And  she 


"NOT  BY  BREAD  ALONE"  213 

called  Nancy  "Anne."  Her  lifted  eyebrows  at 
Nancy's  English,  her  shocked,  patient,  parrot-like, 
"Not  'seen  him  when  he  done  it,'  please.  You  saw 
him  when  he  did  it ! — No,  'I  come  in  the  house'  is  n't 
correct.  Try  to  remember  that  well-bred  persons  use 
the  past  tense  of  the  verb ;  thus :  '  I  came  into  the 
house.' — What  do  I  hear,  Anne?  You  'taken'  it? 
No!  You  TOOK  it!"  And  she  would  look  at  Nancy 
like  a  scandalized  martyr,  ready  to  die  for  the  noble 
cause  of  English  grammar !  Rather  than  endure  that 
look,  rather  than  face  those  uplifted  eyebrows,  Nancy, 
gritting  her  teeth,  set  herself  seriously  to  the  task  of 
making  over  her  method  of  speech. 

It  was  Mrs.  MacGregor  who,  discovering  the  girl's 
unstinted  allowance  of  candy,  cut  off  the  supply. 
She  didn't  care  much  for  candies  herself,  but  she 
did  like  fruit,  and  fruit  was  substituted  for  the  for- 
bidden sweets.  She  had  the  healthy,  wholesome  Eng- 
lish habit  of  walking,  and  unless  the  weather  was  im- 
possible she  forced  her  unwilling  charge  to  take  long 
tramps  with  her,  generally  immediately  after  break- 
fast. They  would  set  out,  Nancy  dressed  in  a  plain 
blue  serge,  her  pretty,  high-heeled  pumps  discarded 
for  flat -heeled  walking-shoes,  Mrs.  MacGregor  flat- 
footed  also,  tall,  bony,  in  a  singular  bonnet,  but 
nevertheless  retaining  an  inherent  stateliness  which 
won  respect.  Sometimes  they  tramped  up  Riverside 
Drive,  their  objective  being  Grant's  tomb.  Mrs. 
MacGregor  respected  Grant;  and  the  stands  of  dusty 
flags  brought  certain  old  British  shrines  to  her  mind. 
On  stated  mornings  they  visited  the  Library,  while 


214  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

Mrs.  MacGregor  selected  the  books  Nancy  was  to 
read,  books  that  Nancy  looked  at  askance.  They  had 
their  mornings  for  the  museums,  too.  Mrs.  Mac- 
Gregor knew  nothing  of  art,  except  that,  as  she  said 
to  Nancy,  well-bred  persons  simply  had  to  know 
something  about  it.  After  their  walk  came  lessons, 
grueling,  dry-as-dust,  nose-to-the-grindstone  lessons, 
during  which  Nancy's  speech  was  vivisected.  At  two 
o'clock  they  lunched,  and  Nancy  had  further  critical 
instructions.  The  dishes  she  had  once  been  allowed 
to  order  were  changed,  greatly  to  her  annoyance ;  Mrs. 
MacGregor  liked  such  honest  stuff  as  mutton  chops 
and  potatoes,  just  as  she  insisted  upon  oatmeal  for 
breakfast.  Porridge,  she  called  it.  In  the  afternoon 
they  motored;  Mrs.  MacGregor,  who  detested  speed, 
became  the  bane  of  the  hard-faced  chauffeur's  life. 

They  dined  at  seven,  and  for  an  hour  thereafter 
Mrs.  MacGregor  either  read  aloud  from  some  book 
intended  to  edify  the  young  person,  or  forced  Nancy 
to  do  so.  She  was  possibly  the  only  person  alive  who 
delighted  in  Hannah  More.  She  said,  modestly,  that 
at  an  early  age  she  had  been  taught  to  revere  this 
paragon,  and  whatever  happy  knowledge  of  the  vir- 
tues proper  to  the  female  state  she  possessed,  she 
owed  in  a  large  measure  to  that  model  writer. 
Nancy  conceived  for  Hannah  More  a  hatred  equaled 
in  intensity  only  by  that  cherished  for  Mrs.  Mac- 
Gregor herself. 

Mrs.  MacGregor 's  notions  of  dress  and  her  own 
were  asunder,  even  as  the  poles.  But  here  again  that 
rigid  duenna  did  her  invaluable  service,  for  if  she 


"NOT  BY  BREAD  ALONE"  215 

didn't  look  handsome  in  the  clothes  selected  for  her, 
she  didn't,  as  that  lady  said  frankly,  look  vulgar  in 
them.  No  longer  would  you  be  liable  to  mistake  her 
for  somebody's  second-rate  housemaid  on  her  day  out. 
The  simple  diet  and  the  inexorable  regularity  of  her 
hours  also  told  in  her  favor,  although  she  herself 
wasn't  as  yet  aware  of  the  change  taking  place. 
Already  you  could  tell  that  hers  was  a  supple  and 
shapely  young  body,  with  promise  of  a  magnificent 
maturity;  you  glimpsed  behind  the  fading  freckles 
a  skin  like  a  water-lily  for  creamy  whiteness;  and 
that  red  hair  of  hers,  worn  without  frizzings,  began 
to  take  on  a  glossy,  coppery  luster. 

That  spring  they  moved  into  the  new  house.  It 
was  so  different  from  the  average  newly-rich  Amer- 
ican home  that  it  moved  even  Mrs.  MacGregor  to 
praise.  Nancy  thought  it  rather  bare.  It  hadn't 
color  enough,  and  there  were  but  few  pictures.  Yet 
the  old  rosewood  and  mahogany  furniture  pleased  her. 
She  remembered  that  golden-oak,  red-plush  parlor  at 
Baxter's  with  a  sort  of  wonder.  Why!  she  had 
thought  that  parlor  handsome !  And  now  she 
was  beginning  to  understand  how  hideous  it  had 
been. 

She  saw  little  of  Mr.  Champneys,  who  seemed  to 
be  plunged  to  the  eyes  in  business.  Occasionally  he 
appeared,  looked  at  her  searchingly,  said  a  few  words 
to  her  and  Mrs.  MacGregor,  and  vanished  for  another 
indefinite  period.  Mr.  Jason  Vandervelde  was  almost 
a  daily  visitor  when  Mr.  Champneys  happened  to  be 
in  the  city.  At  times  Mr.  Champneys  went  away,  pre- 


216  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

sumably  to  look  after  business  interests,  and  Nancy 
thought  that  at  such  times  the  lawyer  accompanied 
him.  She  had  no  friends  of  her  own  age,  and  Mrs. 
MacGregor  wasn't,  to  say  the  least,  companionable. 
And  the  books  she  was  compelled  to  read  bored  her 
to  distraction.  She  took  it  for  granted  they  must  be 
frightfully  good,  they  were  so  frightfully  dull !  The 
deadliest,  dullest  of  all  seemed  to  be  reserved  for  Sun- 
day. She  didn't  mind  going  to  church;  in  church 
you  could  watch  other  people,  even  though  Mrs.  Mac- 
Gregor sat  rigidly  erect  by  your  side,  and  expected 
you  to  be  able  to  find  your  place  in  a  Book  of  Common 
Prayer  entirely  unfamiliar  to  you.  While  she  sat  rapt 
during  what  you  thought  an  '"unnecessarily  long  ser- 
mon, you  could  look  about  you  slyly,  and  take  note 
of  the  people  within  your  immediate  radius. 

Nancy  liked  to  observe  the  younger  people.  Some- 
times a  bitter  envy  would  almost  choke  her  when  she 
regarded  some  girl  who  was  both  pretty  and  prettily 
dressed,  and,  apparently,  care-free  and  happy.  She 
watched  the  younger  men  stealthily.  Some  of  them 
pleased  her;  she  would  have  liked  to  be  admired  by  at 
least  one  of  them,  and  she  felt  jealous  of  the  fortu- 
nate young  women  singled  out  for  their  attentions. 
Think  of  being  pretty,  and  having  beautiful  clothes, 
and  swell  fellows  like  that  in  love  with  you !  That 
any  one  of  these  fine  young  men  should  cast  a  glance 
in  her  own  direction  never  entered  her  mind.  No. 
Loveliness  and  the  affection  and  gaiety  of  youth  were 
for  others;  for  her — Peter  Champneys.  At  that  she 
fetched  a  deep  sigh.  She  always  went  home  from 


"NOT  BY  BREAD  ALONE"  217 

church  silent  and  subdued.     Mrs.  MacGregor  thought 
this  a  proper  attitude  of  mind  for  the  Sabbath. 

The  girl  was  vaguely  disturbed  and  uneasy  with- 
out knowing  why.  The  newness  and  glamour  of  the 
possession  of  creature  comforts,  the  absence  of  want, 
was  wearing  thin  in  spots.  She  was  conscious  of  a 
lack.  She  was  beginning  to  think  and  to  question, 
and  as  there  was  no  one  in  whom  she  might  confide, 
she  turned  inward.  Naturally,  she  couldn't  answer 
her  own  questions,  and  all  her  thoughts  were  as  yet 
chaotic  and  confused.  She  wanted — well,  what  did 
she  want,  anyhow?  She  repeated  to  herself,  "I  want 
something  different ! ' '  That  something  different 
should  not  include  a  dref  ry  round  of  Mrs.  MacGregor, 
a  cold  inspection  by  Mr.  Chadwick  Champneys;  nor 
the  thought  of  Peter  Champneys.  It  would  include 
laughter  and — and  people  who  were  neither  teachers 
nor  guardians,  but  who  were  gay,  and  young,  and 
kind.  She  began  to  be  conscious  of  her  own  isolation. 
She  had  always  been  isolated.  Once  poverty  had 
done  it ;  and  now  money  was  doing  it.  Those  girls 
she  saw  at  church — she  'd  bet  they  went  to  parties, 
had  loads  of  friends,  had  a  good  time,  were  loved; 
plenty  of  people  wanted  their  love.  For  herself,  as 
far  back  as  she  could  look,  she  had  never  had  a  friend. 
"Who  cared  for  her  love?  Sometimes  she  watched  the 
new  maid,  a  distractingly  pretty  little  Irish  girl, 
black-haired,  blue-eyed,  rosy-faced.  The  girl  tried  to 
be  demure,  to  restrain  the  laughter  that  was  always 
near  the  surface ;  but  her  eyes  danced,  her  cheek  dim- 
pled, she  had  what  one  might  call  a  smiling  voice. 


218  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

And  the  handsome  young  policeman  on  the  corner  was 
acutely  aware  of  her.  Nancy  remembered  one  after- 
noon when  she  and  Mrs.  MacGregor  happened  to  be 
coming  in  at  the  same  time  with  Molly.  It  was 
Molly 's  afternoon  off  and  she  was  dressed  trimly,  and 
with  taste.  Under  her  little  close-fitting  hat  her  hair 
was  like  black  satin,  her  face  like  a  rose.  The  young 
policeman  managed  to  pass  the  house  at  that  moment, 
and  lifted  his  cap  to  her;  Nancy  saw  the  look  in  the 
young  man's  eyes.  She  followed  Mrs.  MacGregor 
into  the  house,  rebelliously.  Nobody  had  ever  looked 
at  her  like  that.  Nobody  was  ever  going  to  look  at 
her  like  that.  She  remembered  Peter  Champneys's 
eyes  when  they  had  first  met  hers.  A  dull  flush 
stained  her  face,  and  bitterness  overwhelmed  her. 

Mr.  Champneys  was  busy;  Mrs.  MacGregor  was 
satisfied — she  had  a  position  of  authority ;  her  creature 
comforts  were  exquisitely  attended  to ;  her  salary  was 
ample.  The  man  saw  his  plans  being  carried  for- 
ward, if  not  brilliantly  at  least  creditably ;  the  woman 
saw  that  her  tasks  were  fulfilled.  It  never  occurred 
to  either  that  the  girl  might  or  should  ask  for  more 
than  she  received,  or  that  she  might  find  her  days 
dull.  But  Nancy  was  discovering  that  the  body  is 
more  than  raiment,  and  that  one  does  not  live  by 
bread  alone. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   BRIGHT   SHADOW 

THE  Champneys  chauffeur,  greatly  to  Mrs. 
MacGregor's  terror  and  disapproval,  seemed 
to  live  for  speed  alone ;  in  consequence,  one 
afternoon  Mrs.  MacGregor  and  Nancy  very  narrowly 
escaped  dying  for  it.  Whereupon  Mr.  Champneys 
summarily  dismissed  the  chauffeur  and  engaged  in 
his  place  young  Glenn  Mitchell,  accidentally  brought 
to  his  notice.  Mr.  Champneys  congratulated  himself 
upon  the  discovery  of  Glenn  Mitchell.  To  begin  with, 
he  was  a  South  Carolinian,  one  of  those  well-born, 
penniless,  ambitious  young  Southerners  who  come  to 
New  York  to  make  their  fortune.  One  of  his  fore- 
bears had  married  a  Champneys.  That  was  in  ante 
bellum  days,  but  South  Carolina  has  a  long  memory, 
and  this  far-off  tie  immediately  established  the  young 
fellow  upon  a  footing  of  family  relationship  and  of 
cousinly  friendliness.  He  was  a  personable  youth  of 
twenty,  who  had  worked  his  way  through  high  school 
and  meant  presently  to  go  through  the  College  of 
Physicians  and  Surgeons, — his  grandfather  had  been 
a  distinguished  physician,  Mr.  Champneys  remem- 
bered. The  boy  proposed  to  use  his  skill  in  handling 
a  motor-car  as  a  means  toward  that  end. 

219 


220  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

Mr.  Chadwick  Champneys  would  gladly  have  paid 
Glenn's  college  expenses  out  of  his  own  pocket,  but 
the  young  man,  delicately  sounded,  politely  but 
sturdily  declined.  The  next  best  thing  the  kindly  old 
Carolinian  could  do,  then,  was  to  make  the  boy  a  mem- 
ber of  his  own  household.  Hoichi  had  orders  to  pre- 
pare a  room  for  Mr.  Mitchell,  and  Mrs.  MacGregor 
was  advised  that  he  would  take  his  meals  with  the 
family.  She  was  at  first  inclined  to  be  scandalized: 
to  bring  your  chauffeur  to  your  own  table  was  Amer- 
icanism with  a  vengeance!  But  when  she  met  the 
young  man,  she  was  mollified.  This  chauffeur  was  a 
gentleman,  and  in  Mrs.  MacGregor 's  estimation  a 
gentleman  may  do  many  things  without  losing  caste. 
She  remembered  that  the  perfectly  decent  younger 
son  of  a  certain  poverty-stricken  nobleman  had  driven 
a  car.  This  young  Mitchell  was  exceptionally  good- 
looking  in  a  nice,  boyish,  fresh-faced  way,  and  she 
saw  in  his  manner  a  youthful  reflection  of  the  courtli- 
ness which  distinguished  Mr.  Chadwick  Champneys. 
He  had  a  great  deal  of  that  indefinable  something  we 
call  charm,  and  before  she  knew  it  Mrs.  MacGregor 
was  won  over  to  him,  and  looked  upon  his  presence  as 
a  distinct  addition  to  the  Champneys  menage. 

When  he  had  been  introduced  to  Nancy,  she  was 
mentioned  as  ''My  niece,  Mrs.  Champneys."  Mrs. 
MacGregor  called  her  "Anne."  Mr.  Champneys 
spoke  to  her  as  "Nancy,"  and  Glenn  thought  he  must 
have  been  mistaken  as  to  that  "Mrs."  There  was  no 
sign  of  a  husband  anywhere;  neither  was  there  any 
indication  of  widowhood.  Nobody  mentioned  Peter — 


THE  BRIGHT  SHADOW  221 

Mr.  Champneys  because  he  was  more  interested  in 
talking  about  Glenn's  business  than  his  own,  on  the 
occasions  when  he  had  time  to  talk  about  anything; 
Mrs.  MacGregor,  because  she  had  never  seen  Peter, 
knew  nothing  at  all  about  him,  except  that  there  was 
a  nephew  somewhere  in  the  background  of  things,  and 
wasn't  in  the  least  interested  in  anything  but  her 
own  immediate  affairs;  besides,  it  never  would  have 
occurred  to  her  to  talk  about  her  employer's  affairs, 
even  if  she  had  known  anything  about  them.  An 
employer  who  was  a  gentleman,  and  very  wealthy,  be- 
longed to  the  Established  Order,  and  Mrs.  MacGregor 
had  the  thorough-going  British  respect  for  Established 
Order.  Nancy,  for  her  part,  wished  to  forget  that 
Peter  existed.  She  never  by  any  chance  mentioned 
him,  or  even  thought  of  him  if  she  could  help  it. 
So  when  young  Glenn  Mitchell,  after  the  pleasant 
South  Carolina  fashion,  addressed  her  as  "Miss 
Nancy"  it  seemed  perfectly  all  right  to  everybody. 

Nancy  was  a  little  over  eighteen  then.  She  had 
grown  taller,  but  she  retained  the  pleasant  angularity 
of  extreme  youth.  Because  she  didn't  know  how  to 
arrange  her  hair,  Mrs.  MacGregor  sternly  forbidding 
frizzing  and  curling,  and  insisting  upon  a  "modest 
simplicity  becoming  to  a  young  girl"  she  wore  her 
red  mane  in  a  huge  plait.  She  had  been  so  teased  and 
badgered  about  her  red  hair,  had  hated  it  so  heartily, 
been  so  ashamed  of  it,  that  she  didn't  realize  how 
magnificent  it  was  now,  after  two  years  of  care  and 
cleanliness.  It  wasn't  auburn;  it  wasn't  Titian;  it 
was  a  bright,  rich,  glittering,  unbuyable,  undeniable 


222  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

red,  and  Nancy  wore  her  plait  as  a  boy  wears  a  chip 
on  his  shoulder.  Young  Glenn  Mitchell  was  seized 
with  a  wild  desire  to  catch  hold  of  that  braid  that 
was  like  a  cable  of  gleaming  copper,  and  wind  it 
around  his  wrists.  For  the  first  time,  he  thought, 
he  was  seeing  the  true  splendor  and  beauty  of  red 
hair ;  and  the  girl  had  the  wonderfully  white  skin  that 
accompanies  it.  He  suspected  that  she  must  have 
been  pretty  badly  freckled  when  she  was  a  child,  for 
the  freckles  were  still  fairly  visible,  though  one  saw 
that  they  would  presently  vanish  altogether.  The 
curve  of  her  throat  and  chin,  the  "salt-cellars"  at  the 
base  of  the  neck,  left  nothing  to  be  desired.  Alto- 
gether there  was  that  about  this  girl  that  caught  and 
held  his  boyish  attention.  It  was  n  't  that  she  was 
pretty, — he  had  at  first  thought  her  plain.  It  was 
rather  that  here  lay  a  tantalizing  promise  of  unfold- 
ment  by  and  by,  a  sheathed  hint  of  something  rare 
and  perilous. 

He  did  n 't  quite  know  what  to  make  of  Mr.  Champ- 
neys's  niece.  She  was  abnormally  silent,  unbeliev- 
ably unobtrusive,  singularly  still.  Watching  her,  he 
found  himself  wishing  she  would  smile,  at  least  oc- 
casionally: he  longed  to  see  what  her  mouth  would 
look  like  if  it  should  curve  into  laughter.  She  had 
exquisite  teeth,  and  her  eyes,  when  one  was  allowed 
to  get  a  glimpse  of  them,  were  of  a  curious,  agaty, 
gray  green,  with  one  or  two  little  spots  or  flecks  in 
the  iris.  Hers  was  an  impassive,  emotionless  face; 
yet  she  gave  a  distinct  impression  of  feeling,  emotion, 
passion  held  in  check;  it  was  as  if  her  feelings  had 


THE  BRIGHT  SHADOW  223 

been  frozen.  But  suppose  a  spring  thaw  should  set 
in — what  then?  Would  there  be  just  a  calm  brook 
flowing  underneath  placid  willows,  or  a  tempestuous 
torrent  sweeping  all  before  it  ?  He  wondered ! 

She  sat  opposite  him  at  table  three  times  a  day,  and 
never  addressed  a  word  to  him,  or  to  Mrs.  MacGregor, 
who  carried  on  whatever  conversation  there  might 
be.  Mrs.  MacGregor  liked  to  give  details  of  enter- 
tainments "at  home,"  at  which  she  herself  had  been 
present,  or  of  events  in  which  A  Member  of  My  Fam- 
ily had  participated.  "I  said  to  the  dear  Bishop," — 
"His  Lordship  remarked  to  My  Cousin."  Sometimes 
during  these  recitals  the  thin,  fine  edge  of  a  smile 
touched  Nancy's  lips.  It  was  gone  so  quickly  one 
wasn't  quite  sure  it  had  been  there  at  all;  yet  its 
brief  passage  gave  her  a  strange  expression  of  mock- 
ery and  of  weariness.  She  offered  no  opinions  of 
her  own  about  anything;  she  made  no  slightest  at- 
tempt to  keep  the  conversation  alive;  you  could  talk, 
or  you  could  remain  silent — it  was  all  one  to  her. 
Yet  dumb  and  indifferent  though  she  appeared  to  be, 
you  felt  her  presence  as  something  very  vital,  listen- 
ing, and  immensely  honest  and  natural. 

He  wished  she  would  speak  to  him,  say  something 
more  than  a  mere  ' '  Yes  "  or  ' '  No. ' '  Girls  had  always 
been  more  than  willing  to  talk  to  Glenn  Mitchell — 
very  much  prettier  and  more  fascinating  girls  than 
this  silent,  stubborn,  red-headed  Anne  Champneys. 
He  began  to  feel  piqued,  as  well  as  puzzled. 

And  then,  one  day,  he  happened  to  glance  up  sud- 
denly and  in  that  instant  encountered  a  full,  straight, 


224  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

intense  look  from  her — a  look  that  weighed,  and  won- 
dered, and  searched,  and  was  piercingly,  almost  un- 
bearably eager  and  wistful.  He  felt  himself  engulfed, 
as  it  were,  in  the  bottomless  depths  of  that  long,  clear 
gaze,  that  went  over  him  like  the  surge  of  great 
waters,  and  drenched  his  consciousness  to  the  core. 
Brand-new  Eve  might  have  looked  thus  at  brand-new 
Adam,  sinlessly,  virginally,  yet  with  an  avid  and  fear- 
ful questioning  and  curiosity.  For  the  second  his 
heart  shook  and  reeled  in  his  breast.  Then  the  dark 
lashes  fell  and  veiled  the  shining  glance.  Her  face 
was  once  more  indifferent  and  mask-like. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Nancy  was  avidly  interested 
in  Glenn,  in  whom  for  the  first  time  she  encountered 
youth.  He  came  like  a  fresh  breeze  into  an  existence 
in  which  she  stifled.  From  his  first  appearance  in  the 
house  she  had  watched  him  stealthily,  looking  at  him 
openly  only  when  she  thought  herself  unobserved. 
Conscious  of  her  own  defects,  she  was  timid  where  this 
good-looking  young  man  was  concerned.  It  never 
occurred  to  her  that  she  might  interest  him,  but  she 
did  not  wish  him  to  think  ill  of  her.  She  kept  her- 
self in  the  background  as  much  as  possible. 

She  had  none  of  the  joyousness  natural  to  a  girl  of 
her  age.  She  had  no  young  companions.  Was 
there  some  reason?  "Wasn't  she  happy?  He  felt 
vaguely  troubled  for  her.  She  aroused  his  sympathy, 
as  well  as  his  curiosity.  He  couldn't  forget 
that  look  he  had  surprised.  It  stayed  in  his  memory, 
perilously.  At  night  in  his  room,  when  he  should 
have  been  studying,  that  astonishing  glance  came  be- 


THE  BRIGHT  SHADOW  225 

fore  him  on  his  book,  and  cast  a  luminous  spell  upon 
him. 

He  surprised  no  more  such  glances.  She  still  rele- 
gated to  Mrs.  MacGregor  the  full  task  of  talking  to 
him;  a  task  that  lady  performed  nobly.  Just  as  she 
walked  every  morning  with  Mrs.  MacGregor,  she  took 
her  place  in  the  car  every  afternoon,  apparently  obey- 
ing orders.  Sometimes,  twisting  his  head  around,  he 
could  glimpse  her  profile  turned  toward  the  moving 
panorama  of  the  crowded  streets  through  which  he 
was  skilfully  maneuvering  his  way.  But  if  she  were 
interested  in  what  she  gazed  at  so  fixedly,  she  made 
no  comment.  One  never  knew  what  she  thought  about 
anything. 

One  memorable  evening  she  appeared  at  dinner  in 
a  yellow  frock,  instead  of  the  usual  serge  or  plain 
blue  silk.  It  was  n  't  an  elaborate  dress,  but  its  pret- 
tily low  neck  allowed  one  to  admire  her  full  throat, 
with  a  string  of  amber  beads  around  it.  Her  hair 
hung  in  two  thick  braids  across  her  shoulders,  and  the 
straight  lines  of  the  yellow  satin  accentuated  the 
youthfulness  of  her  figure.  Glenn's  heart  behaved 
unmannerly. 

She  appeared  not  to  see  his  quick,  pleased  glance, 
but  turned  instead  to  Mrs.  MacGregor,  who  was  re- 
garding her  critically.  Mrs.  MacGregor  hadn't  been 
consulted  about  the  yellow  frock,  and  she  viewed  it 
with  distinct  disapproval.  Glenn  found  himself 
solidly  aligned  against  Mrs.  MacGregor,  and  siding 
with  the  girl.  He  liked  that  yellow  frock ;  somehow  it 
suited  her  coloring,  enabled  one  to  see  how  unusual 


226  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

she  really  was.  He  wondered  that  he  had  thought  her 
so  plain,  at  first.  She  agitated  him.  He  wished  in- 
tensely that  she  would  look  at  him;  and  just  then 
she  did,  and  for  the  first  time  saw  admiration  in  a 
young  man's  eyes,  not  for  another  girl,  but  for  her- 
self! She  held  his  glance,  doubtfully,  timidly;  but 
she  could  n't  doubt  the  evidence  of  her  senses.  Glenn 
was  pleased  with  her,  he  admired  her !  His  ingenuous 
face  beamed  the  fact,  from  frank  eyes  and  smiling  lips. 
There  was  somewhat  more  than  admiration  in  his 
look,  but  Nancy  was  more  than  content  with  what 
appeared  on  the  surface.  Her  eyes  widened,  a  flush 
rose  to  her  cheek,  a  naive  and  pleased  smile  trans- 
formed her  dissatisfied  young  mouth.  When  he  ven- 
tured to  speak  to  her  presently,  she  ventured  to  reply, 
shyly,  but  with  new  friendliness.  Once,  when  Mrs. 
MacGregor  said  something  sententious,  and  Glenn 
laughed,  Nancy  laughed  with  him. 

That  frank  and  boyish  admiration  restored  to  her, 
as  it  were,  some  rightful  and  precious  heritage  long 
withheld,  an  indispensable  birthright  the  lack  of 
which  had  beggared  and  stripped  her.  She  had  a 
sense  of  profound  gratitude  to  this  likable  and  hand- 
some young  man,  a  moved  and  touching  interest  in 
him.  He  made  her  feel  glad  to  be  alive ;  through  him 
the  world  seemed  of  a  sudden  a  kindlier  place,  full  of 
charming  surprises.  And  when  she  accompanied  Mrs. 
MacGregor  to  church  on  the  following  Sunday,  she 
looked  with  a  secret  sisterliness  at  the  girls  she  had 
envied  and  disliked.  It  was  as  if  she  had  been  elected 
to  their  ranks,  been  made  one  of  them;  she  wasn't 


THE  BRIGHT  SHADOW  227 

on  the  outside  of  things  any  more ;  somebody — a  very 
desirable  and  handsome  somebody — admired  her,  too. 
She  did  n't  analyze  her  feelings.  Youth  never  thinks 
or  analyzes,  it  feels  and  realizes;  that  is  why  it  is 
divine,  why  it  is  lord  of  the  earth.  Her  growing  lik- 
ing for  him  was  so  shy,  so  naive,  so  touchingly  sincere, 
that  Glenn  was  profoundly  moved  when  he  became 
aware  of  it.  He  had  the  old  South  Carolina  chivalry; 
to  him  women  were  still  invested  with  a  halo,  and  one 
approachel  them  with  a  manly  reverence.  He  had 
liked  girls,  many  girls;  he  would  have  told  you,  him- 
self, that  he  never  met  a  pretty  girl  without  loving 
her  some !  But  this  was  the  first  time  Glenn  had  ever 
really  fallen  in  love,  and  he  fell  headlong,  with  an 
impetuous  ardor  that  all  but  swept  him  off  his  feet, 
and  that  was  like  strong  wine  to  Nancy,  whose  drink 
heretofore  had  been  lukewarm  water. 

He  did  n  't  know  whether  or  not  she  was  Mr.  Champ- 
ney's  sole  heir,  and  he  didn't  care:  what  difference 
could  that  make?  He  was  as  well  born  as  any 
Champneys,  wasn't  he?  And  if  he  wasn't  blessed 
with  much  of  this  world's  goods  just  now,  he  took  it 
for  granted  he  was  going  to  be,  after  a  while.  As  for 
that,  hadn't  Chadwick  Champneys  himself  once  been 
as  poor  as  Job 's  turkeys  And  had  n 't  Mr.  Champ- 
neys acknowledged  the  relationship  existing  between 
them,  slight  and  distant  though  it  was?  Who  'd  have 
the  effrontery  to  look  down  on  one  of  the  Mitchells 
of  Mitchellsville,  South  Carolina?  He  'd  like  to 
know!  Glenn  began  to  dream  the  rosy  dreams  of 
twenty. 


228  THE  PUKPLE  HEIGHTS 

It  took  Nancy  somewhat  longer  to  discover  the 
amazing  truth.  She  was  more  suspicious  and  at  the 
same  time  very  much  more  humble-minded  than 
Glenn.  But  suspicion  faded  and  failed  before  his 
honest  passion.  His  agitation,  his  eagerness,  his  face 
that  altered  so  swiftly,  so  glowingly,  whenever  she 
appeared,  would  have  told  the  truth  to  one  duller  than 
Nancy.  If  Mrs.  MacGregor  could. have  suspected  that 
anybody  could  fall  in  love  with  Anne  Champneys,  she 
must  have  seen  the  truth,  too.  But  she  didn't.  She 
was  serenely  blind  to  what  was  happening  under  her 
eyes. 

Nancy  never  forgot  the  day  she  discovered  that 
Glenn  loved  her.  Mrs.  MacGregor  had  one  of  her 
rare  headaches.  She  was  a  woman  who  hated  to  up- 
set the  fixed  routine  of  life,  and  as  their  afternoon 
outing  was  one  of  the  established  laws,  she  insisted 
that  Nancy  should  go,  though  she  herself  must  remain 
at  home.  Half  fearful,  half  delighted,  Nancy  went. 
Glenn  had  looked  at  her,  mutely  entreating;  in  re- 
sponse to  that  entreaty  she  took  the  seat  beside  him. 
For  some  time  neither  spoke — Glenn  because  he  was 
too  wildly  happy,  Nancy  because  she  had  n't  anything 
to  say.  She  was  curious;  she  waited  for  him  to 
speak. 

"I  wonder,"  gulped  Glenn,  presently,  "if  you  know 
just  how  happy  I  am." 

Nancy  said  demurely  that  she  didn't  know;  but  if 
he  was  happy  she  was  glad :  it  must  be  very  nice  to  be 
happy ! 

"Aren't  you  happy?"  he  ventured. 


THE  BRIGHT  SHADOW  229 

Nancy  turned  pink  by  way  of  answer.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  she  was  nearer  being  happy  then  than  she 
had  ever  been.  They  fell  into  an  intimate  conversa- 
tion— that  is,  Glenn  talked,  and  the  girl  listened.  He 
explained  his  hopes,  ambitions,  prospects.  He  talked 
eagerly  and  impetuously.  He  wished  her  to  under- 
stand him,  to  know  all  about  him, — what  he  was,  what 
he  hoped  to  be.  A  boy  in  love  is  like  that. 

In  return  for  this  confidence  Nancy  explained  that 
she  hated  oatmeal,  and  Hannah  More;  some  of  these 
days  she  meant  to  buy  every  copy  of  Hannah  More 
she  could  lay  her  hands  on,  and  burn  them.  Of  her- 
self, her  past,  she  said  nothing. 

"And  so  you  're  going  to  be  a  doctor!"  she  turned 
the  conversation  back  to  him,  as  being  much  more  in- 
teresting. 

"Yes.  Or  rather,  I  'm  going  to  be  a  great  sur- 
geon." And  then  he  asked,  smilingly: 

"And  you — what  do  you  want  to  be?" 

"I  want  to  be  happy,"  said  Nancy,  half  fiercely. 

"There  isn't  any  reason  why  you  shouldn't  be — a 
girl  like  you." 

Nancy  looked  a  bit  doubtful.  But  no,  he  was  n  't 
poking  fun.  And  after  a  pause,  he  asked,  as  one  put- 
ting himself  to  the  test : 

"Miss  Anne — Nancy — do  you  think  you  could  be 
happy — with  me?" 

"You?"  breathed  Nancy,  all  a-tremble.  She 
thought  she  could  be  happier  with  Glenn  than  with 
anybody  else.  Why!  there  wasn't  anybody  else! 
That  is,  nobody  that  cared.  She  was  afraid  to  say 


230  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

so.    But  her  moved  and  changed  face  said  it  for  her. 

"Because,  if  you  could  be  happy  with  me,  why 
shouldn't  you  be?"  asked  Glenn,  brilliantly.  But 
Nancy  understood,  and  her  heart  crowded  into  her 
throat  with  delight,  and  terror,  and  a  sort  of  agony. 
She  felt  that  she  loved  and  adored  this  boy  to  dis- 
traction. She  would  have  adored  anybody  who  loved 
and  desired  her,  who  found  her  fair.  But  she  did  n  't 
understand  that;  neither  did  Glenn. 

"You  care?"  said  the  boy,  leaning  toward  her. 
They  were  running  slowly,  along  a  road  high  above 
the  river.  "Nancy,  you  care?" 

Care?  Of  course  she  cared!  She  considered  him 
the  most  beautiful  and  desirable  of  mortals;  she  was 
so  enraptured,  so  thrilled  with  the  astounding  fact 
that  he  cared  for  her,  that  she  could  n 't  speak,  but 
looked  at  him  with  swimming  eyes.  He  brought  the 
car  to  a  stop,  slipped  an  arm  around  her  shoulder, 
and  drew  her  close.  She  knew  that  something  mo- 
mentous was  going  to  happen  to  her,  and  looked  at 
him,  full  of  a  sweet  terror.  "I  love  you!"  said 
Glenn,  and  kissed  her  on  the  mouth. 

His  beard  was  the  ghost  of  down  on  his  cheek ;  her- 
hair  hung  in  a  braid  to  her  waist ;  their  kiss  was  the 
kiss  of  youth, — tender,  passionately  pure.  Every- 
thing but  that  morning  face,  pale  with  young  emo- 
tion, looking  at  her  with  enamored  eyes,  vanished 
from  her  mind;  everything  else  counted  for  nothing, 
went  like  chaff  upon  the  wind.  The  one  fact  alone 
remained:  Glenn  loved  her!  Her  senses  were  in  a 
delicious  tumult  from  the  power  and  the  glory  of  it : 


THE  BRIGHT  SHADOW  231 

Glenn  loved  her!  It  was  as  if  a  skylark  sang  in  her 
breast,  as  if  she  walked  in  a  rosy  and  new-born  world. 
Had  Nancy  been  called  upon  to  die  for  him  then,  she 
would  have  gone  to  her  death  shining-eyed,  fleet- 
footed,  joyous. 

"I  love  you,  I  love  you!"  Glenn  repeated  it  like  a 
litany.  "Nancy!  Does  it  make  you  as  happy  be- 
cause I  love  you  as  it  makes  me  because  you  love 
me?" 

"Oh,  ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand  times 
more!"  she  said  fervently. 

"I  think  it  was  your  hair  I  fell  in  love  with,  first 
off,"  he  told  her  presently.  "I  have  never  seen  a 
girl  with  such  hair,  and  such  a  lot  of  it.  I  'm  crazy 
about  your  hair,  Nancy." 

"I  think  you  must  be,"  she  agreed  whole-heartedly. 
She  wasn't  vain,  his  girl! 

They  had  no  more  plans  than  birds  or  flowers  have. 
Plenty  of  time  for  sober  planning  by  and  by,  when 
one  grew  accustomed  to  the  sweet  miracle  of  being 
beloved  as  much  as  one  loved !  Glenn  simply  took  it 
for  granted  he  was  going  to  marry  her.  He  had 
known  her  all  of  three  months — a  lifetime,  really! — 
and  she  had  allowed  him  to  kiss  her,  had  admitted 
she  cared.  He  supposed  they  would  have  to  wait 
until  he  had  been  through  his  training  and  won  that 
coveted  degree.  Until  then,  they  would  keep  their 
beautiful  secret  to  themselves;  they  didn't  wish  to 
share  it  with  anybody,  yet. 

It  was  only  when  she  was  alone  in  her  room  that 
night  that  Nancy  realized  the  true  situation  that  con- 


232  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

fronted  her.  On  the  one  side  was  Glenn,  dear,  won- 
derful Glenn,  who  loved  her.  On  the  other  was  Peter 
Champneys,  who  had  married  her  as  she  had  married 
him,  for  the  Champneys  money.  Peter  Champneys ! 
who  despised  her,  and  whom  she  must  consider  a  bar- 
rier between  herself  and  whatever  happiness  life 
might  offer  her!  She  could  understand  how  Glenn 
had  made  his  mistake.  Nobody  had  explained  Peter 
to  him.  To  tell  him  the  truth  now  meant  to  lose  him. 
She  was  like  a  person  dying  of  thirst,  yet  forbidden  to 
drink  the  cup  of  cold  water  extended  to  her. 

Was  n  't  it  wiser  to  take  what  life  offered,  drain  the 
cup,  and  let  come  what  might?  "Why  not  snatch  her 
chance  of  happiness,  even  though  it  should  be  brief? 
Suppose  one  waited?  Deep  in  her  heart  was  the 
hope  that  something  would  happen  that  would  save 
her;  youth  always  hopes  something  is  going  to  hap- 
pen that  will  save  it.  Was  n't  it  possible  Peter  might 
fall  in  love  with  somebody,  and  divorce  her?  One 
saw  how  very  possible  indeed  such  a  thing  was !  For 
the  present,  let  Glenn  love  her.  It  was  the  most  im- 
portant and  necessary  thing  in  the  world  that  Glenn 
should  love  her.  What  harm  was  she  doing  in  let- 
ting Glenn  love  her?  Particularly  when  Peter 
Champneys  didn't,  never  would,  any  more  than  she 
ever  could  or  would  love  Peter  Champneys. 

Even  Mrs.  MacGregor  noticed  the  change  taking 
place  in  Anne  Champneys.  The  girl  had  more  color 
and  animation,  and  at  times  she  even  ventured  to  ex- 
press her  own  opinions,  which  were  strikingly  shrewd 
and  fresh  and  original.  Her  eyes  had  grown  sweeter 


THE  BRIGHT  SHADOW  233 

and  clearer,  now  that  she  no  longer  slitted  them,  and 
her  mouth  was  learning  to  curve  smilingly.  De- 
cidedly, Anne  was  vastly  improved !  And  her  man- 
ner had  subtly  changed,  too;  she  was  beginning  to 
show  an  individuality  that  wasn't  without  a  nascent 
fascination. 

Mrs.  MacGregor  plumed  herself  upon  the  improve- 
ment in  her  pupil,  which  she  ascribed  to  her  own 
civilizing  and  potent  influence,  for  she  was  a  God- 
fearing Avomau.  She  didn't  understand  that  the 
greatest  Power  in  heaven  and  earth  was  at  work  with 
Nancy. 

But  although  Glenn  became  daily  more  enam- 
ored of  the  girl,  he  wasn't  so  satisfied  with  things  as 
they  were.  He  could  n  't  say  that  Nancy  really 
avoided  him,  of  course.  He  drove  her  and  Mrs.  Mac- 
Gregor, whom  at  times  he  wished  in  Jericho,  out  in 
the  car  every  afternoon.  He  sat  opposite  her  at  table 
thrice  daily.  Sometimes  in  the  evening  he  spent  an 
hour  or  two  with  her  and  Mrs.  MacGregor,  before 
going  to  his  own  room  to  study.  But  it  so  happened 
that  he  never  was  able  to  see  her  alone  any  more ;  and 
Nancy  certainly  made  no  effort  to  bring  about  that  de- 
sirable situation.  This  made  him  restive  and  at  the 
same  time  increased  his  passion  for  her. 

For  her  part,  she  was  perfectly  content  just  to  look 
at  him,  to  know  that  he  was  near.  But  Glenn  was 
more  impatient.  He  wanted  the  fragrance  of  her 
hair  against  his  shoulder;  he  wanted  the  straight, 
strong  young  body  in  his  arms ;  he  wished  to  kiss  her. 
And  she  held  aloof.  Although  she  no  longer  veiled 


234  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

her  eyes  from  him,  although  he  was  quite  sure  she 
loved  him,  she  was  always  tantalizingly  out  of  his 
reach.  She  didn't  seem  to  understand  the  lover's 
desire  to  be  alone  with  the  beloved,  he  thought.  He 
grew  moody.  The  weeks  seemed  years  to  his  ardent 
and  impetuous  spirit.  One  night,  happening  to  need 
a  book  he  had  noticed  in  the  library,  he  went  after  it. 
And  there,  oh  blessed  vision,  sat  Nancy!  She  had 
been  sleepless  and  restless,  and  had  stolen  out  of  her 
room  for  something  to  read  that  had  n  't  been  selected 
by  Mrs.  MacGregor.  It  was  rather  late,  but  finding 
the  quiet  library  pleasanter  to  her  mood  than  her  own 
room,  she  curled  up  in  a  comfortable  chair  and  began 
to  read.  The  book  was  Hardy's  "Tess,"  and  its 
strong  and  somber  passion  and  tragedy  filled  her  with 
pity  and  terror.  Something  in  her  was  roused  by 
the  story;  she  felt  that  she  understood  and  suffered 
with  that  simple  and  passionate  soul. 

She  looked  up,  startled,  as  Glenn  entered  the  room. 
He  came  to  her  swiftly,  his  arms  outstretched,  his  face 
alight. 

"You!"  he  cried,  radiant  and  elate.     "You!" 

Nancy  rose,  torn  between  the  desire  to  retreat,  and 
to  fling  herself  into  those  waiting  arms.  Glenn  left 
her  no  choice.  He  seized  her,  roughly  and  master- 
fully, and  held  her  close,  pressing  her  against  his 
body.  His  lips  fastened  upon  hers.  Nancy  closed 
her  eyes  and  shivered.  She  felt  small  and  helpless, 
a  leaf  before  the  wind,  and  she  was  afraid. 

"Nancy!"  he  whispered.  "Nancy!  You've  got 
to  marry  me.  We  '11  just  have  to  risk  it,  degree  or 


THE  BRIGHT  SHADOW  235 

no  degree !  What 's  the  use  of  waiting  all  our  lives, 
maybe,  when  we  love  each  other?  When  will  you 
marry  me,  Nancy?" 

She  knew  then  that  she  had  to  tell  him  the  truth, 
and  she  trembled. 

"Glenn,  I — I — "  she  stammered.  Her  tongue 
seemed  to  cleave  to  the  roof  of  her  mouth. 

' '  Soon  ?  Say  yes,  Nancy !  I  'm  crazy  about  you, 
don't  you  know  that?  Why  don't  you  say  when, 
Nancy?" 

She  felt  desperate,  as  if  some  force  were  closing 
in  upon  her,  relentlessly.  She  had  to  speak,  and  yet 
she  could  n't.  She  tried  to  escape  from  the  arms  that 
held  her,  but  they  clasped  her  all  the  closer.  His 
eager  lips  closed  on  hers. 

" Nancy!  Ah,  darling,  why  not  let  everything  go 
and  marry  me  at  once?" 

Ah,  why  not,  indeed?  As  if  Peter  Champneys  had 
reached  across  the  sea  to  divide  her  and  Glenn,  a  stern 
voice  answered  Glenn's  question. 

"Because  she  has  a  husband  already,"  it  said 
harshly.  Chalky  white,  with  blazing  eyes,  Chadwick 
Champneys  confronted  Peter's  wife  in  another  man's 
arms.  "She  is  married  to  my  nephew,  Peter  Champ- 
neys. Is  it  possible  you  do  not  know?" 

Glenn's  arms  dropped.  Intuitively  he  moved  away 
from  her.  His  visage  blanched,  and  he  stared  at  her 
strangely. 

"Nancy,  is  this  thing  true?" 

Nancy  nodded.  She  said  in  a  lifeless  voice:  "Oh 
yes,  it  's  true.  I  was  trying  to  tell  you,  but — " 


236  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

And  then  she  broke  into  a  cry:  "Glenn,  you  don't 
understand !  Glenn,  listen,  please  listen !  I  did  love 
you,  I  do  love  you,  Glenn!  You — you  don't  know — 
you  don't  understand — " 

The  boy  staggered.  He  was  an  honorable,  clean- 
souled  boy,  heir  to  old  heritages  of  pride,  and  faith, 
and  chivalry.  A  dull,  shamed  red  crept  from  cheek 
to  brow,  replacing  his  pallor.  His  gesture,  as  he 
turned  away  from  her,  made  her  feel  as  if  she  had 
been  struck  across  the  face.  She  winced.  She  saw 
herself  judged  and  condemned. 

"Mr.  Champneys,"  stammered  Glenn,  painfully, 
"surely  you  know  I  didn't  understand — don't  you? 
I — we — fell  in  love,  sir.  We  'd  meant  to  wait — that  's 
why  I  did  n  't  come  to  you  at  once — but  I — that  is,  I 
was  very  much  in  love  with  her,  and  I  was  going  to 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it  and  ask  you  what  we  'd  bet- 
ter do.  And  you  're  not  to  think  I  'm — dishonor- 
able— "  he  choked  over  the  word. 

Knowing  the  boy's  breed,  Champneys  laid  a  not 
unkindly  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"I  see  how  it  was,"  he  said.  "And — I  guess 
you  're  punished  enough,  without  any  reproaches 
from  me." 

Glenn  turned  to  Nancy.  "Why  did  you  do  it?" 
he  cried.  "I  loved  you,  I  trusted  you.  Nancy,  why 
did  you  do  such  a  thing — to  me? " 

She  twisted  her  fingers.  Well,  this  was  the  end. 
She  was  to  be  thrust  out  of  the  new  brightness,  back 
into  the  drab  dreariness,  the  emptiness  that  was  her 
fate.  She  lifted  tragic  eyes. 


THE  BRIGHT  SHADOW  237 

"I  never  expected  you  to  love  me.  But  when  you 
did — I  just  had  to  let  you !  Nobody  else  cared — ever. 
And  I  loved  you  for  loving  me — I  couldn't  help  it, 
Glenn;  I  couldn't  help  it!"  Her  voice  broke.  She 
stood  there,  twisting  her  fingers. 

An  old,  wise,  kind  woman,  or  an  old  priest  who  had 
seen  and  forgiven  much,  or  men  who  knew  and  pitied 
youth,  would  have  understood.  Neither  of  the  men 
to  whom  she  spoke  realized  the  significance  of  that 
childishly  pitiful  confession.  Champneys  felt  that 
she  had  shamed  his  name,  belittled  the  sacred  Family 
which  was  his  fetish ;  Glenn  thought  she  had  made  a 
fool  of  him  for  her  own  amusement.  Never  again 
would  he  trust  a  woman,  he  told  himself.  And  in  his 
pain  and  shame,  his  smarting  sense  of  having  been 
duped,  his  hideous  revulsion  of  feeling,  he  spoke  out 
brutally.  Nancy  was  left  in  no  doubt  as  to  the  esti- 
mation in  which  he  now  held  her.  And  she  under- 
stood that  it  was  his  pride,  even  more  than  his  love, 
that  suffered. 

She  made  no  further  attempt  to  explain  or  to  ex- 
culpate herself;  what  was  the  use?  She  knew  that 
had  they  changed  places,  had  Glenn  been  in  her  shoes 
and  she  in  his,  her  judgment  had  not  been  thus 
swift  and  merciless.  Her  larger  love  would  have  un- 
derstood, and  pitied,  and  forgiven.  Pride !  They 
talked  of  Pride,  and  they  talked  of  Name.  But  she 
could  only  feel  that  the  one  love  she  had  ever  known, 
or  perhaps  ever  was  to  know,  was  going  from  her, 
must  go  from  her,  unforgiving,  as  if  she  had  done  it 
some  irreparable  wrong.  She  looked  from  one  wrath- 


238  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

ful,  accusing  face  to  the  other,  like  a  child  that  has 
been  beaten.  How  could  Glenn,  who  had  seemed  to 
love  her  so  greatly,  turn  against  her  so  instantly? 
Not  even — Peter  Champneys — had  looked  at  her  as 
Glenn  was  looking  at  her  now !  And  of  a  sudden  she 
felt  cold,  and  old,  and  sad,  and  inexpressibly  tired. 
So  this  was  what  men  were  like,  then !  They  always 
blamed.  And  they  never,  never  understood.  She 
would  not  forget. 

She  checked  the  impulse  to  cry  aloud  to  Glenn,  to 
try  once  more  to  make  him  understand.  Her  eyes 
darkened,  and  two  bright  spots  burnt  in  her  cheeks. 
Without  a  further  word  or  glance  she  walked  out 
of  the  room  and  left  the  two  standing  close  together. 
So  stepped  Anne  Champneys  into  her  womanhood. 

She  locked  her  door  upon  herself.  Then  she  went 
over,  after  her  fashion,  and  stared  at  herself  in  her 
mirror.  The  herself  staring  back  at  her  startled 
her — the  flushed  cheeks,  the  mouth  like  coral,  the  eyes 
glowing  like  jewels  under  straight  black  brows.  The 
ropes  of  red  hair  seemed  alive,  too;  the  whole  figure 
radiated  a  personality  that  could  be  dynamic,  once  its 
powers  should  be  fully  aroused. 

She  viewed  the  woman  in  the  glass  impersonally,  as 
if  it  had  been  a  stranger's  face  looking  at  her.  That 
vivid  creature  couldn't  be  Nancy  Simms,  not  quite 
three  years  ago  the  Baxter  slavey,  the  same  Nancy 
that  Peter  Champneys  had  shrunk  from  with  aver- 
sion, and  that  Glenn  had  repudiated  to-night ! 

"Yes, — it  's  me,"  she  murmured.  "But  I  ain't — 
I  mean  I  am  not  really  ugly  any  more.  I  'm — I  don't 


THE  BRIGHT  SHADOW  239 

know  just  what  I  am — or  whether  I  ought  to  like  or 
hate  me — "  But  even  while  she  shook  her  head,  the 
face  in  the  glass  changed;  the  mouth  drooped,  the 
color  faded,  the  light  in  the  eyes  went  out.  "But 
whatever  I  am,  I  'm  not  enough  to  make  anybody 
keep  on  loving  me."  Then,  because  she  was  just  a 
girl,  and  a  very  bewildered,  sad,  and  undisciplined 
girl,  she  put  her  red  head  down  on  her  dressing-table 
and  wept  despairingly. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Champneys  explained  to  the 
concerned  and  regretful  Mrs.  MacGregor  that  Mr. 
Mitchell  had  been  called  away  suddenly,  last  night, 
and  did  n  't  think  he  would  be  able  to  return.  The 
ladies  were  to  accept  Mr.  Mitchell's  regrets  that  he 
had  n't  been  able  to  bid  them  good-by  in  person.  Mr. 
Champneys  bowed  for  Mr.  Mitchell,  in  a  very  stately 
manner.  He  went  on  with  his  breakfast,  while  Nancy 
made  a  pretense  of  eating  hers,  hating  life  and  wish- 
ing with  youthful  intensity  that  she  was  dead,  and 
Glenn  with  her.  His  empty  place  mocked  and  tor- 
tured her.  He  had  gone,  and  he  didn't,  wouldn't, 
could  n't  understand.  She  could  never,  never  hope  to 
make  Glenn  understand !  She  rather  expected  Mr. 
Champneys  to  sit  in  judgment  upon  her  that  morning, 
but  a  whole  week  passed  before  Hoichi  brought  the 
message  that  Mr.  Champneys  wished  to  see  her  in  the 
library.  Her  uncle  was  standing  by  the  window  when 
she  entered,  and  he  turned  and  bowed  to  her  politely. 
He  was  thinner,  gaunter,  more  Don  Quixotish  than 
usual.  If  only  he  had  been  kind !  But  his  face  was 
set,  and  hers  instinctively  hardened  to  match  it. 


240  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

"Nancy,"  he  began  directly,  "I  have  not  sent  for 
you  to  load  you  with  reproaches  for  your  inexplicable 
conduct.  But  I  must  say  this :  deliberately  to  deceive 
and  befool  an  honest  gentleman,  to  trifle  with  his  af- 
fections out  of  mere  greedy  vanity,  is  so  base  that  I 
have  no  words  strong  enough  to  condemn  it. ' ' 

"I  didn't  mean  to  fool  him.  He  fooled  himself, 
and  I  let  him  do  it, ' '  said  she,  dully.  He  thought  her 
listlessness  indifference,  and  any  bluntness  in  moral 
tone  in  a  woman,  scandalized  him.  He  could  under- 
stand a  Mrs.  MacGregor,  who  was  without  subtleties ; 
or  soft,  loving,  courageous  women  like  Milly  and  his 
sister-in-law,  Peter's  mother.  But  this  girl  he 
couldn't  fathom.  He  beat  his  hands  together,  help- 
lessly. 

"I — you — "  he  groaned.  And  then:  "Oh,  Peter, 
what  have  I  done  to  you ! ' ' 

"I  can't  see  you  've  done  anything  to  him,  except 
pay  him  to  go  away  and  learn  how  to  make  some- 
thing out  of  himself,"  returned  Nancy,  practically. 
It  brought  him  up  short.  "Uncle  Chadwick,  please 
keep  quiet  for  a  few  minutes:  I  want  you  to  listen  to 
me."  She  met  his  eyes  fully.  "I  didn't  do  Glenn 
Mitchell  any  real  harm :  he  11  fall  in  love  with  some- 
body else  pretty  soon.  I  suppose  it  's  easy  for  Glenn 
to  love  people  because  it  's  easier  for  people  to  love 
Glenn.  And  he  's  done  me  this  much  good:  I  won't 
be  so  ready  to  believe  it  's  easy  for  folks  to  love  me, 
Uncle  Chadwick.  I  guess  I  'm  the  sort  they  mostly — 
don't.  I  '11  not  forget."  She  spoke  without  bitter- 


THE  BRIGHT  SHADOW  241 

ness,  even  with  dignity.  "One  thing  more,  please. 
If  ever  Peter  Champneys  finds  out  he  loves  somebody, 
and  he  '11  let  me  know,  I  '11  give  him  his  freedom. 
Fortune  or  no  fortune,  I  won't  hold  him.  I  know 
now — a  little — what  loving  somebody  means,"  she 
finished. 

Her  voice  was  so  steady,  her  eyes  so  clear  and  direct, 
her  manner  so  contained,  that  he  was  uncomfortably 
impressed.  He  felt  put  upon  the  defensive.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  in  his  first  anger  and  surprise  at  what 
he  still  considered  her  shameless  behavior,  he  had 
seriously  considered  the  advisability  of  having  Peter's 
marriage  annulled.  As  soon  as  he  had  become  calmer, 
his  pride  and  obstinacy  rejected  such  a  course.  After 
all,  no  harm  had  been  done.  She  was  very  young. 
And  he  hoped  Glenn's  outspoken  condemnation  had 
taught  her  a  needed  and  salutary  lesson.  Looking  at 
her  this  morning,  he  realized  that  she  had  been  pun- 
ished. But  that  she  should  so  calmly  speak  of  divorc- 
ing Peter,  of  making  way  for  some  other  woman,  hor- 
rified him. 

"You  are  talking  immoral  nonsense!"  he  said, 
angrily.  "Let  him  go,  indeed!  Divorce  your  hus- 
band! What  are  we  coming  to?  In  my  day  mar- 
riage was  binding.  No  respectable  husband  or  wife 
ever  dreamed  of  divorce!" 

"But  they  were  real  husbands  and  wives,  weren't 
they?"  asked  Nancy. 

"All  husbands  and  wives  are  real  husbands  and 
wives ! "  he  thundered. 


242  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

She  considered  this — and  him — carefully.  "Then 
you  don't  want  Mr.  Peter  Champneys  and  me  ever  to 
be  divorced?  I  thought  maybe  you  might." 

"I  forbid  you  even  to  think  such  wickedness," 
cried  he,  alarmed.  "A  girl  of  your  age  talking  in 
such  a  manner !  It  's  scandalous,  that  's  what  it  is, — 
scandalous !  Shows  the  dry-rot  of  our  national  moral 
sense,  when  the  very  children" — he  glared  at  Nancy — 
' '  gabble  about  divorce ! ' ' 

"Then  I — I  mean,  things  are  just  to  go  along,  the 
same  as  they  have  been?"  She  looked  at  him  plead- 
ingly. 

For  a  few  minutes  he  drummed  on  the  library  table 
with  his  thin  brown  fingers.  His  bushy  brows  con- 
tracted. He  asked  unexpectedly: 

"Would  you  like  to  go  away  for  a  while?  To 
travel?" 

"Where?" 

"Where?  Why,  anywhere!  There's  a  whole 
world  to  travel  in,  isn't  there?  Well,  take  Mrs.  Mac- 
Gregor  and  travel  around  in  it,  then." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"What  's  the  use?  Anywhere  I  went  I  'd  have  to 
go  with  me,  wouldn't  I?  And  I  can't  seem  to  like 
the  idea  of  traveling  around  with  Mrs.  MacGregor, 
either. ' ' 

"What  do  you  want,  then?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice.  And  she 
added:  "So  I  think  I  might  just  as  well  stay  right 
on  here  at  home,  if  it  's  all  the  same  to  you." 


THE  BRIGHT  SHADOW  243 

"Well,  if  it  pleases  you,  of  course — "  he  began 
doubtfully. 

"If  I  do  stay,  you  needn't  be  afraid  I  '11  fall  in 
love  with  anybody  else  you  hire,"  said  she,  with  a 
faint  flush.  "I  'm  only  a  fool  the  same  way  once." 
Her  bomb-shell  directness  all  but  stunned  him.  He 
stammered,  confusedly: 

"Why — very  well  then,  very  well  then!  Quite  so! 
I  see  exactly  what  you  mean !  I — ah — am  very  glad 
we  understand  each  other."  But  as  the  door  closed 
behind  her,  he  mumbled  to  himself: 

' '  Now,  that  was  a  devil  of  an  interview,  was  n  't  it ! 
What  's  come  over  the  girl  ?  And  what  's  the  matter 
with  me?"  After  a  while  he  telephoned  Mr.  Jason 
Vandervelde. 

Everything  went  on  as  usual  in  the  orderly,  lux- 
urious house,  for  some  ten  quiet  months  or  so.  And 
then  one  memorable  morning  at  the  breakfast-table 
Mr.  Champneys  suddenly  gasped  and  slid  down  in  his 
chair.  Nancy  and  Hoichi  carried  him  into  the  library 
and  placed  him  on  a  lounge.  He  opened  his  eyes 
once,  and  stared  into  hers  with  something  of  his  old 
imperiousness.  She  took  his  hand,  pitifully,  and 
bent  down  to  him. 

"Yes,  Uncle  Chadwick?" 

But  he  didn't  speak — to  her.  His  eyes  wandered 
past  her.  His  lips  trembled  into  a  whisper  of 
"Milly!"  With  that  he  went  out  to  the  wife  of  his 
youth. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SWAN   FEATHERS 

WHILE  Mr.  Chadwick  Champneys  was  alive, 
Nancy  had  been  able  to  feel  that  there  was 
some  one  to  whom  she,  in  a  way,  belonged. 
Now  that  he  was  gone,  she  felt  as  if  she  had  been 
detached  from  all  human  ties,  for  she  could  n  't  con- 
sider Peter  as  belonging.  Peter  was  n 't  coming  home, 
of  course.  He  was  content  to  leave  his  business  in- 
terests in  the  safe  hands  of  Mr.  Jason  Vandervelde, 
and  the  trust  company  that  had  the  Champneys  estate 
in  charge.  A  last  addition  to  Mr.  Champneys 's  will 
had  made  the  lawyer  the  guardian  of  Mrs.  Peter 
Champneys  until  she  was  twenty-five. 

While  he  was  putting  certain  of  his  late  client's 
personal  affairs  in  order,  Mr.  Vandervelde  necessarily 
came  in  contact  with  young  Mrs.  Peter.  The  oftener 
he  met  her,  the  more  interested  the  shrewd  and  kindly 
man  became  in  Anne  Champneys.  When  he  first 
saw  her  in  the  black  she  had  donned  for  her  uncle, 
the  unusual  quality  of  her  personal  appearance  struck 
him  with  some  astonishment. 

' '  Why,  she  's  grown  handsome  ! "  he  thought  with 
surprise.  "Or  maybe  she  's  going  to  be  handsome. 
244 


SWAN  FEATHERS  245 

Or  maybe  she  's  not,  either.  Whatever  she  is,  she 
certainly  can  catch  the  human  eye!" 

He  remembered  her  as  she  had  appeared  on  her 
•wedding-day,  and  his  respect  for  Chadwick  Champ- 
neys's  far-sighted  perspicacity  grew:  the  old  man 
certainly  had  had  an  unerring  sense  of  values.  The 
girl  had  a  mind  of  her  own,  too.  At  times  her  judg- 
ment surprised  him  with  its  elemental  clarity,  its 
penetrating  soundness.  The  power  of  thinking  for 
herself  had  n't  been  educated  out  of  her;  she  had  not 
been  stodged  with  other  people's — mostly  dead  peo- 
ple's— thoughts,  therefore  she  had  room  for  her  own. 
He  reflected  that  a  little  wholesome  neglect  might  be 
added  to  the  modern  curriculum  with  great  advantage 
to  the  youthful  mind. 

Her  isolation,  the  deadly  monotony  of  her  daily  life, 
horrified  him.  He  realized  that  she  should  have  other 
companionship  than  Mrs.  MacGregor's,  shrewdly  sus- 
pecting that  as  a  teacher  that  lady  had  passed  the 
limit  of  usefulness  some  time  since.  Somehow,  the 
impermeable  perfection  of  Mrs.  MacGregor  exasper- 
ated Mr.  Vandervelde  almost  to  the  point  of  throwing 
things  at  her.  She  made  him  understand  why  there 
is  more  joy  in  heaven  over  one  sinner  saved,  than 
over  ninety  and  nine  just  persons.  He  could  un- 
derstand just  how  welcome  to  a  bored  heaven  that 
sinner  must  be!  And  think  of  that  poor  girl  living 
with  this  human  work  of  supererogation ! 

"Why,  she  might  just  as  well  be  in  heaven  at  once !" 
he  thought,  and  shuddered.  "I  've  got  to  do  some- 
thing about  it." 


246  THE  PUEPLE  HEIGHTS 

"Marcia,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  "I  want  you  to  help 
me  out  with  Mrs.  Peter  Champneys.  Call  on  her. 
Talk  to  her.  Then  tell  me  what  to  do  for  her.  She  's 
changed — heaps — in  three  years.  She  's — well,  I 
think  she  's  an  unusual  person,  Marcia." 

A  few  days  later  Mrs.  Jason  Vandervelde  called 
on  Mrs.  Peter  Champneys,  and  at  sight  of  Nancy  in 
her  black  frock  experienced  something  of  the  emotion 
that  had  moved  her  husband.  She  felt  inclined  to 
rub  her  eyes.  And  then  she  wished  to  smile,  remem- 
bering how  unnecessarily  sorry  she  and  Jason  had 
been  for  young  Peter  Champneys. 

Marcia  Vandervelde  was  an  immensely  clever  and 
capable  woman;  perhaps  that  partly  explained  her 
husband's  great  success.  She  looked  at  the  girl  be- 
fore her,  and  realized  her  possibilities.  Mrs.  Peter 
was  for  the  time  being  virtually  a  young  widow,  she 
had  no  relatives,  and  she  was  co-heir  to  the  Champ- 
neys millions.  Properly  trained,  she  should  have  a 
brilliant  social  career  ahead  of  her.  And  here  she 
was  shut  up — in  a  really  beautiful  house,  of  course — 
with  nobody  but  an  insufferable  frump  of  an  unim- 
portant Mrs.  MacGregor !  The  situation  stirred  Mrs. 
Vandervelde 's  imagination  and  appealed  to  her  ex- 
ecutive ability. 

Mrs.  Vandervelde  liked  the  way  she  wore  her  hair, 
in  thick  red  plaits  wound  around  the  head  and  pinned 
flat.  It  had  a  medieval  effect,  which  suited  her  color- 
ing. Her  black  dress  was  soft  and  lusterless.  She 
wore  no  jewelry,  not  even  a  ring.  There  were  shadows 
under  her  grave,  gray-green  eyes.  Altogether,  she 


SWAN  FEATHERS  247 

looked  individual,  astonishingly  young,  and  patheti- 
cally alone.  Mrs.  Vandervelde's  interest  was  aroused. 
Skilfully  she  tried  to  draw  the  girl  out,  and  was  re- 
lieved to  discover  that  she  wasn't  talkative;  nor  was 
she  awkward.  She  sat  with  her  hands  on  the  arms  of 
her  chair,  restfully;  and  while  you  spoke,  you  could 
see  that  she  weighed  what  you  were  saying,  and 
you. 

"I  am  going  to  like  this  girl,  I  think,"  Marcia 
Vandervelde  told  herself.  And  she  looked  at  Nancy 
with  the  affectionate  eyes  of  the  creative  artist  who 
sees  his  material  to  his  hand. 

* 'Jason,"  she  said  to  her  husband,  some  time  later, 
"what  would  you  think  if  I  should  tell  you  I  wished 
to  take  Anne  Champneys  abroad  with  me?" 

"I  'd  say  it  was  the  finest  idea  ever — if  you  meant 
it." 

"I  do  mean  it.  My  dear  man,  with  proper  han- 
dling one  might  make  something  that  approaches  a 
classic  out  of  that  girl.  There  's  something  elemental 
in  her :  she  's  like  a  birch  tree  in  spring,  and  like  the 
earth  it  grows  in,  too,  if  you  see  what  I  mean.  I  want 
to  try  my  hand  on  her.  I  hate  to  see  her  spoiled." 

"It  's  mighty  decent  of  you,  Marcia!"  said  he, 
gratefully. 

"Oh,  you  know  how  bored  I  get  at  times,  Jason, 
I  need  something  real  to  engage  my  energies.  I 
fancy  Anne  Champneys  will  supply  the  needed  stim- 
ulus. I  shall  love  to  watch  her  reactions:  she  's  not 
a  fool,  and  I  shall  be  amused.  If  she  managed  to  do 
so  well  with  nobody  but  poor  old  Mr.  Champneys  and 


248  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

that  dreary  MacGregor  woman,  think  what  she  '11  be 
when  /  get  through  with  her!" 

Vandervelde  said  respectfully:  "You  're  a  brick, 
Marcia!  If  she  patterns  herself  on  you — " 

"If  she  patterns  herself  on  anybody  but  herself, 
I  '11  wash  my  hands  of  her !  It  's  because  I  think 
she  won't  that  I  'm  willing  to  help  her,"  said  his 
wife,  crisply. 

Some  six  weeks  later  the  Champneys  house  had 
been  closed  indefinitely,  the  premises  put  in  charge 
of  the  efficient  Hoichi,  and  Mrs.  MacGregor  bonused 
and  another  excellent  position  secured  for  her,  and 
Mrs.  Peter  Champneys  was  making  her  home  with  her 
guardian  and  his  wife. 

She  might  have  moved  into  another  world,  so  dif- 
ferent was  everything, — as  different,  say,  as  was  the 
acrid  countenance  of  Mrs.  MacGregor  from  the  fresh- 
skinned,  clear-eyed,  clever,  handsome  face  of  Marcia 
Vandervelde.  Everything  interested  Nancy.  Her 
senses  were  acutely  alert.  Just  to  watch  Mrs.  Van- 
dervelde, so  calm,  so  poised  and  efficient,  gave  her  a 
sense  of  physical  well-being.  She  had  never  really 
liked,  or  deeply  admired,  or  trusted  any  other  woman, 
and  the  real  depths  of  her  feeling  for  this  one  sur- 
prised her.  Mrs.  Vandervelde  possessed  the  supreme 
gift  of  putting  others  at  their  ease ;  she  had  tact,  and 
was  at  the  same  time  sincere  and  kind.  Nancy  found 
herself  at  home  in  this  fine  house  in  which  life  moved 
largely  and  colorfully. 

A  maid  had  been  secured  for  her,  whom  Mrs.  Van- 
dervelde pronounced  a  treasure.  Then  came  skilful 


SWAN  FEATHERS  249 

and  polite  persons  who  did  things  to  her  skin  and  hair, 
with  astounding  results.  After  that  came  the  selec- 
tion of  her  wardrobe,  under  Mrs.  Vandervelde's  crit- 
ical supervision.  Although  the  frocks  were  black, 
with  only  a  white  evening  gown  or  two  for  relief, 
Nancy  felt  as  if  she  were  clothed  in  a  rosy  and  de- 
lightful dream.  She  had  never  even  imagined  such 
things  as  these  black  frocks  were.  When  she  saw  her- 
self in  them  she  was  silent,  though  the  super-sales- 
women exclaimed,  and  Mrs.  Vandervelde  smiled  a 
gratified  smile. 

"I  am  going  to  keep  her  strictly  in  the  background 
for  the  time  being,  Jason,"  she  explained  to  her  hus- 
band. "As  she  's  already  married,  she  can  afford  to 
wait  a  year — or  even  two.  I  mean  her  to  be  perfect. 
I  mean  her  to  be  absolutely  sure.  She  's  going  to  be 
a  sensation.  Jason,  have  you  ever  seen  anything  to 
equal  her  team-work?  When  I  tell  her  what  I  want 
her  to  do,  she  looks  at  me  for  a  moment — and  then 
does  it.  One  thing  I  must  say  for  old  Mr.  Champ- 
neys  and  that  MacGregor  woman:  they  certainly 
knew  how  to  lay  a  firm  foundation ! ' ' 

Nancy  was  perfectly  willing  to  remain  in  the  back- 
ground. She  was  interested  in  people  only  as  an  on- 
looker. She  responded  instantly  to  Mrs.  Vander- 
velde's suggestions  and  instructions,  and  carried  them 
out  with  an  intelligent  thoroughness  that  at  times 
made  her  mentor  gasp.  It  gave  her  a  definite  object 
to  work  for,  and  kept  her  from  thinking  too  much 
about  Glenn  Mitchell.  And  she  did  n't  want  to  think 
about  Glenn  Mitchell.  It  hurt.  She  watched  with  a 


250  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

quiet  wonder — quite  as  if  it  had  been  a  stranger  to 
whom  all  this  was  happening — the  change  being 
wrought  in  herself;  the  immense  difference  intelli- 
gent care,  perfectly  selected  clothes,  and  the  back- 
ground of  a  beautiful  house  can  make  not  only  in 
one's  appearance  but  in  one's  thoughts.  Sometimes 
she  would  stare  at  the  perfectly  appointed  dinner- 
table,  with  its  softly  shaded  lights;  she  would  look, 
reflectively,  from  Marcia  Vandervelde's  smartly 
coiffured  head  to  her  husband's  fine,  aristocratic  face; 
the  reflective  glance  would  trail  around  the  beautiful 
room,  rest  appreciatively  upon  the  impressive  butler, 
come  back  to  the  food  set  before  her,  and  a  fugitive 
smile  would  touch  her  lips  and  linger  in  her  eyes. 
There  were  times  when  she  felt  that  she  herself  was 
the  only  real  thing  among  shadows;  as  if  all  these 
pleasant  things  must  vanish,  and  only  her  lonesome 
self  remain.  She  watched  with  a  certain  wistfulness 
the  few  people  she  knew.  Marcia,  now — so  admired, 
so  sure,  with  so  many  interests,  so  many  friends,  and 
with  Jason  Vandervelde's  quiet  love  always  hers — 
did  she  ever  have  that  haunting  sense  of  the  imper- 
manence  of  all  possessions;  of  having,  in  the  end, 
nothing  but  herself? 

"What  are  you  thinking,  when  you  look  at  me  like 
that  ? ' '  Marcia  asked  her  one  evening,  smilingly.  She 
was  as  curious  about  Nancy  as  Nancy  was  about  her. 

"I  was  just — wondering." 

"About  what?" 

"I  was  wondering  if  you  were  ever  lonely?"  said 
Nancy,  truthfully.  "I  mean,  as  if  all  this," — they 


SWAN  FEATHERS  251 

were  in  the  drawing-room  then,  and  she  made  a  ges- 
ture that  included  everything  in  it,— ''just  things, 
you  know,  all  the  things  you  have — and — and  the  peo- 
ple you  know — weren't  real.  They  go.  And  noth- 
ing stays  but  just  you.  You,  all  by  yourself."  She 
leaned  forward,  her  eyes  big  and  earnest. 

Marcia  Vandervelde  stared  at  her.  After  a  moment 
she  said,  tentatively:  "There  are  always  things; 
things  one  has,  things  one  does.  There  are  always 
other  people." 

"Yes,  or  there  wouldn't  be  you,  either.  But  what 
I  mean  is,  they  go.  And  you  stay,  don't  you?"  She 
paused,  a  pucker  between  her  brows,  "All  by  your- 
self," she  finished,  in  a  low  voice. 

' '  Does  that  make  you  afraid  ? ' '  asked  Mrs.  Vander- 
velde. 

"Oh,  no!  Why  should  it?  It  just  makes  me — 
wonder. ' ' 

Mrs.  Vandervelde  said  quietly:  "I  understand." 
Nancy  felt  grateful  to  her. 

A  few  days  later  Mrs.  Vandervelde  said  to  her 
casually:  "An  old  friend  of  ours  dines  with  us  to- 
night, Anne, — Mr.  Berkeley  Hayden,  one  of  the  most 
charming  men  in  the  world.  I  think  you  will  like 
him." 

Mrs.  Vandervelde  always  said  that  Berkeley  Hay- 
den  was  the  most  critical  man  of  her  acquaintance, 
and  that  his  taste  was  infallible.  He  had  an  unerring 
sense  of  proportion,  and  that  miracle  of  judgment 
which  is  good  taste.  He  was  one  of  those  fortunate 
people  who,  as  the  saying  goes,  are  born  with  a  gold 


252  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

spoon  in  the  mouth.  Unlike  most  inheritors  of  great 
wealth,  he  not  only  spent  freely  but  added  even  more 
freely  to  the  ancestral  holdings.  He  was  moneyed 
enough  to  do  as  he  pleased  without  being  considered 
eccentric;  he  could  even  afford  to  be  esthetic,  and  to 
prefer  Epicurus  to  St.  Paul.  He  had  a  highly  im- 
portant collection  of  modern  paintings,  and  an  even 
more  valuable  one  of  Tanagra  figurines,  old  Greek 
coins,  and  medieval  church  plate.  He  had,  too,  the 
reputation  of  being  the  most  gun-shy  and  bullet- 
proof of  social  lions.  At  thirty  he  was  a  handsome, 
well-groomed,  rather  bored  personage,  with  sleekly- 
brushed  blond  hair  and  a  short  mustache.  He  looked 
important,  and  one  suspected  that  he  must  have  been 
at  some  pains  to  keep  his  waist  line  so  inconspicuous. 
For  the  rest,  he  was  as  really  cultivated  and  pleasing 
a  pagan  as  one  may  find,  and  so  wittily  ironical  he 
might  have  been  mistaken  for  a  Frenchman. 

Mrs.  Vandervelde  had  planned  that  he  should  be 
the  only  guest.  She  knew  this  would  please  him,  as 
well  as  suit  her  own  purpose,  which  was  that  he  should 
see  young  Mrs.  Peter  Champueys.  She  was  curious 
to  learn  what  impression  Anne  would  create,  and  if 
Berkeley  Hayden's  judgment  would  coincide  with  her 
own.  She  had  informed  him  that  Jason's  ward  was 
stopping  with  them;  would,  in  fact,  go  abroad  with 
her  shortly.  Mr.  Hayden  was  not  interested.  He 
thought  a  ward  rather  a  bore  for  the  Vanderveldes. 

He  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  mantel,  fac- 
ing the  door,  when  Nancy  entered  the  room.  In  the 
filmy  black  Mrs.  Vandervelde  had  selected  for  her, 


SWAN  FEATHERS  253 

tall  and  slim,  she  paused  for  the  fraction  of  a  second 
and  lifted  her  cool,  shining,  inscrutable  green  eyes 
to  his  lazy  blue  ones.  Mrs.  Vandervelde  had  pre- 
vailed upon  her  to  retain  her  own  fashion  of  wearing 
her  hair  in  plaits  wound  around  her  head,  and  the 
new  maid  had  managed  to  soften  the  severity  of  the 
style  and  so  heightened  its  effectiveness.  A  small 
string  of  black  pearls  was  around  her  throat,  and 
pendants  of  the  same  beautiful  jewels  hung  from  her 
ears.  Berkeley  Hayden  started,  and  his  eyes  wid- 
ened. Mrs.  Vandervelde,  who  had  been  watching  him 
intently,  sighed  imperceptibly. 

"I  was  n't  mistaken,  then,"  she  thought,  and  smiled 
to  herself. 

She  could  have  hugged  Anne  Champneys  for  her 
beautifully  unconscious  manner.  Of  course  the  girl 
did  n't  understand  she  was  being  signally  honored  and 
favored  by  Hayden 's  openly  interested  notice,  but 
Marcia  reflected  amusedly  that  it  would  n't  have  made 
much  difference  if  Anne  had  known.  He  didn't  in- 
terest her,  except  casually  and  impersonally.  She 
thought  him  a  very  good-looking  man,  in  his  way,  but 
rather  old  :  say  all  of  thirty : — and  Glenn  Mitchell  had 
been  handsome,  and  romantic,  and  twenty.  Young 
Mrs.  Champneys,  then,  didn't  respond  to  Mr.  Berke- 
ley Hayden 's  notice  gratefully,  pleasedly,  flutteringly, 
as  other  young  women — and  many  older  ones — did. 
This  one  paid  a  more  flattering  attention  to  Mr.  Jason 
Vandervelde  than  to  him.  But  he  had  seen  other 
women  play  that  game;  he  wondered  for  a  moment 
if  this  one  were  designing.  But  he  was  himself  too 


254  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

clever  not  to  understand  that  this  was  real  indiffer- 
ence. Then  he  wondered  if  she  might  be — horrible 
thought ! — stupid.  He  was  forced  to  dismiss  that 
suspicion,  too.  She  wasn't  stupid.  The  truth  did  n 't 
occur  to  him — that  he  himself  was  spoiled.  It  pro- 
voked him,  too,  that  he  couldn't  make  her  talk. 

Mrs.  Vanelervelde  smiled  to  herself  again.  Berke- 
ley was  deliberately  trying  to  make  himself  agreeable, 
something  he  did  not  often  have  to  trouble  himself 
to  do.  He  was  at  his  best  only  when  he  was  really 
interested  or  amused,  and  he  was  at  his  best  to-night. 
He  aroused  her  admiration,  drew  the  fire  of  her  own 
wit  and  raillery,  stung  even  quiet  Jason  into  unwonted 
animation.  Anne  Champneys  looked  from  one  to 
the  other,  concealing  the  fact  that  at  times  their  con- 
versation was  over  her  head.  She  didn't  always  un- 
derstand them.  The  sense  of  their  unreality  in  rela- 
tion'to  herself  came  upon  her.  She  turned  to  watch 
this  strange  man  who  was  saying  things  that  puzzled 
her,  and  he  met  her  eyes,  as  Glenn  Mitchell  had  once 
met  them.  She  wasn't  looking  at  him  as  she  had 
looked  at  Glenn,  but  Berkeley  Hayden's  sophisticated, 
well-trained,  wary  heart  gave  an  unprecedented,  un- 
mannerly jump  when  those  green  eyes  sought  to 
fathom  him. 

Marcia  spoke  of  their  proposed  stay  abroad.  She 
had  gone  to  school  in  Florence,  and  she  retained  a 
passionate  affection  for  the  old  city,  and  showed  her 
delight  at  the  prospect  of  revisiting  it. 

"This  will  be  your  first  visit  to  Italy,  Mrs.  Champ- 
neys?" asked  Hayden. 


SWAN  FEATHERS  255 

"Yes." 

"I  envy  you.  But  you  mustn't  allow  yourself  to 
be  weaned  away  from  your  own  country.  You  must 
come  back  to  New  York."  He  smiled  into  her  eyes — 
Berkeley  Hayden's  famous  smile. 

<4Yes,  I  suppose  I  must,"  said  Nancy,  without  en- 
thusiasm. 

He  felt  puzzled.  "Was  she  unthinkably  simple  and 
natural,  or  was  she  immeasurably  deep  ?  "Was  her  ap- 
parent utter  unconsciousness  of  the  effect  she  pro- 
duced a  superfine  art?  He  couldn't  decide. 

He  usually  knew  exactly  why  any  certain  woman 
pleased  him.  He  had  usually  demanded  beauty;  he 
had  worshiped  beauty  all  his  life.  But  beauty  must 
go  hand  in  hand  with  intellectual  qualities;  he  hated 
a  fool.  To-night  he  found  himself  puzzled.  He 
couldn't  tell  exactly  why  Anne  Champneys  pleased 
him.  Studying  her  critically,  he  decided  that  she 
was  not  beautiful.  He  could  not  even  call  her  pretty. 
Perhaps  it  was  her  unusualness.  But  wherein  was 
she  so  unusual?  He  had  met  women  with  red  hair 
and  white  skin  and  gray-green  eyes  before — women 
far,  far  more  seductive  than  Jason's  ward.  Yet  not 
one  of  them  all  had  so  potently  gripped  his  imagina- 
tion. 

Mrs.  Vandervelde  was  a  brilliant  pianist,  and  after 
dinner  Hayden  begged  her  to  play.  Under  cover  of 
the  music,  he  watched  Mrs.  Champneys.  She  was  sit- 
ting almost  opposite  him,  and  he  could  observe  her 
changing  countenance.  Nancy  was  beginning  to  love 
and  understand  good  music.  Men  create  music; 


256  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

women  receive  and  carry  it  as  they  receive  and  carry 
life.  It  is  quite  as  much  a  part  of  themselves. 

Nancy's  eyes  shadowed.  She  leaned  back  in  her 
chair,  and  the  man  watched  the  curve  of  her  white 
cheek  and  throat,  and  the  thick  braids  of  her  red 
hair.  She  had  forgotten  his  presence.  He  was  say- 
ing to  himself,  with  something  of  wonder,  ' '  No,  she  's 
not  beautiful:  but,  my  God!  how  real  she  is!"  when, 
subtly  drawn  by  the  intensity  of  his  gaze,  she  turned, 
looked  at  him  with  her  clouded  eyes,  and  smiled 
vaguely.  Still  smiling,  she  turned  her  head  again 
and  gave  herself  up  to  listening,  unconscious  that  des- 
tiny had  clapped  her  upon  the  shoulder. 

The  man  sat  quite  still.  It  had  come  to  him  with 
the  suddenness  of  a  lightning  stroke,  and  his  first 
feeling  was  one  of  stunned  amazement,  and  an  almost 
incredulous  resentment.  He  had  gone  to  and  fro  in 
the  earth  and  walked  up  and  clown  in  it,  comfortably 
immune,  an  amused  and  ironic  looker-on.  And  now, 
at  thirty,  without  rhyme  or  reason  he  had  fallen  in 
love  with  a  red-haired  young  woman  of  whom  he  knew 
absolutely  nothing,  beyond  the  bare  fact  that  she  was 
Jason  Vandervelde's  ward.  A  woman  who  didn't 
conform  to  any  standard  he  had  ever  set  for  himself, 
whose  mind  was  a  closed  book  to  him,  of  whose  very 
existence  he  had  been  ignorant  until  to-night.  Old 
Dame  Destiny  must  have  sniggered  when  she  thrust 
Mrs.  Peter  Champneys,  nee  Nancy  Simms,  into  the 
exquisitely  ordered  life  of  Mr.  Berkeley  Hayden ! 

He  presently  discovered  from  Jason  all  that  the 
trustee  of  the  Champneys  estate  knew  of  Mrs.  Peter, 


SWAN  FEATHERS  257 

which  really  wasn't  very  much,  as  the  lawyer  and 
his  wife  had  never  seen  Nancy  until  the  morning  of 
her  marriage.  And  he  did  n  't  have  much  to  say 
about  her  as  she  was  then.  Hayden  gathered  that 
it  was  a  marriage  of  convenience,  for  family  reasons 
— to  keep  the  money  in  the  family.  He  asked  a  few 
questions  about  Peter,  whom  Vandervelde  thought  a 
likely  young  fellow  enough,  but  whom  Hayden  fan- 
cied must  be  a  poor  sort — probably  a  freak  with  a 
pseudo-artistic  temperament.  There  couldn't  have 
been  very  much  love  lost  between  a  husband  and 
wife  who  had  consented  to  so  singular  a  separation. 
Hayden  had  a  very  poor  opinion  of  Mr.  Peter  Champ- 
neys !  But  he  was  fiercely  glad  it  had  n 't  been  a 
love-match,  glad  that  that  other  man's  claim  upon 
Anne  was  at  the  best  nominal,  that  theirs  was  a  mar- 
riage in  name  only. 

He  saw  her  several  times  before  her  departure, 
and  came  no  nearer  to  understanding  her.  The  night 
before  they  sailed,  he  gave  a  dinner  in  his  apartment, 
an  old  aunt  of  his,  more  enchanting  at  sixty  than  at 
sixteen,  being  the  only  other  guest.  That  apartment 
with  its  brocaded  walls  and  its  marvelous  furniture 
was  a  revelation  to  Nancy.  It  was  like  an  opened  door 
to  her. 

She  looked  at  her  host  with  a  new  interest.  He 
appeared  to  greater  advantage  seen,  as  it  were,  against 
his  proper  and  natural  background.  And  that  back- 
ground had  the  glamour  of  things  strange,  exciting, 
and  alluring,  smacking  somewhat  of,  say,  an  Arabian 
Night 's  entertainment.  Over  the  dining-room  mantel 


258  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

hung  a  curious  and  colorful  landscape,  in  which  two 
brown  girls,  naked  to  the  waist  and  from  thence  to 
the  knees  wrapped  in  straight,  bright-colored  stuff, 
raised  their  angular  arms  to  pluck  queer  fruit  from 
exotic  trees. 

He  knew  all  that,  she  thought ;  he  had  seen  that 
strange  landscape  and  those  brown  women,  and  tasted 
the  fruit  they  reached  to  pluck.  Just  as  he  knew 
those  tiny  terra-cotta  figurines  over  there,  and  that 
pottery  which  must  have  been  made  out  of  ruby-dust. 
Just  as  he  knew  everything.  All  this  had  been  in 
his  world,  always.  A  world  full  of  things  beautiful 
and  strange.  He  had  had  everything  that  she  had 
missed.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  incarnated  in  his 
proper  and  handsome  person  all  the  difference  and 
the  change  that  had  come  into  her  life. 

And  quite  suddenly  she  saw  Nancy  Simms  dusting 
the  Baxter  parlor,  pausing  to  stand  admiringly  before 
a  picture  on  a  white-and-gold  easel,  that  cherished 
picture  of  a  house  with  mother-of-pearl  puddles  in 
front  of  it.  A  derisive  and  impish  amusement  flick- 
ered like  summer  lightning  across  her  face,  and  with 
an  inscrutable  smile  she  mocked  the  mother-of-pearl 
puddles  and  her  old  admiration  of  them.  She  lifted 
her  eyes  to  the  painting  over  Berkeley  Hayden's 
mantel,  and  the  smile  deepened. 

"Perhaps  it  is  her  smile,"  thought  he,  watching 
her.  "Yes,  I  am  sure  it  must  be  her  smile.  I  am 
rather  glad  Marcia  is  taking  her  abroad.  I  do  not 
wish  to  make  a  fool  of  myself,  and  there  'd  be  that 


SWAN  FEATHERS  259 

danger  if  she  remained."  Yet  the  idea  of  her  absence 
gave  him  an  unaccustomed  pang. 

He  filled  her  quarters  aboard  ship  with  exquisite 
flowers.  She  was  not  yet  used  to  graceful  attentions  5 
they  had  been  for  other  women,  not  for  her.  She 
had  no  idea  at  all  that  she  was  of  the  slightest  im- 
portance, if  only  because  of  the  Champneys  money; 
her  comparative  freedom  was  still  too  recent  for  her 
to  have  changed  her  estimate  of  herself.  She  thought 
it  touchingly  kind  and  thoughtful  of  this  handsome, 
important  man  to  have  remembered  just  her,  particu- 
larly when  there  wasn't  anybody  else  to  do  so,  and 
she  looked  at  him  with  a  pleased  and  appreciative 
friendliness  for  which  he  felt  absurdly  grateful. 
While  Marcia  was  busied  with  the  other  friends  who 
had  come  to  see  her  off,  he  stood  beside  Mrs.  Champ- 
neys, who  seemed  to  know  no  one  but  himself,  and 
this  established  a  measure  of  intimacy  between  them. 

"It  occurs  to  me,"  said  he,  tentatively,  "that  it  has 
been  some  time  since  I  saw  Florence.  All  of  two  or 
three  years." 

They  stood  together  by  the  railing,  and  she  leaned 
forward  the  better  to  watch  a  leggy  little  girl  with  a 
brickdust-red  pigtail  in  a  group  on  the  pier. 

"Yes?"  said  she,  absently.  The  leggy  girl  had 
just  thrust  out  her  tongue  at  an  expostulating  nurse. 
She  seemed  to  be  a  highly  unpleasant  child;  one  of 
those  children  of  whom  aunts  speak  as  "poor  Mary" 
or  whatever  their  name  may  be.  Anne  Champneys, 
watching  her,  put  her  hand  up  and  touched  her  own 


260  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

hair,  that  gleamed  under  her  close-fitting  black  hat. 
Her  eyes  darkened ;  she  smiled,  secretly,  mysteriously, 
rememberingly. 

In  that  instant  Berkeley  Hayden  made  his  decision. 
There  was  no  longer  any  doubt  in  his  mind.  "When 
she  turned  away  from  the  railing,  he  said  pleasantly : 

"You  and  Marcia  have  put  me  in  the  humor  to  see 
Florence  again.  If  I  come  strolling  in  upon  you  some 
fine  day,  I  hope  you  '11  be  glad  to  see  me,  Mrs.  Champ- 
neys?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  she,  politely.  And  then  Marcia 
and  Vandervelde  came  up,  and  a  few  minutes  later 
the  two  men  went  ashore.  Hayden 's  face  was  the  last 
thing  Nancy  saw  as  the  steamer  moved  slowly  out- 
ward. There  were  hails,  laughter,  waving  of  hand- 
kerchiefs. He  alone  looked  at  her.  And  so  he  re- 
mained in  her  memory,  standing  a  little  apart  from  all 
others. 


CHAPTER  XV 
"i,  TOO,  IN  ARCADIA" 

IF  Riverton  was  his  mother's  house  and  England 
his  grandmother's,  France  was  peculiarly  his 
own.  Peter  Champneys  felt  that  he  had  come 
home,  and  even  the  fact  that  he  couldn't  speak  un- 
derstandable French  did  n  't  spoil  the  illusion.  No- 
body laughed  at  his  barbarous  jargon ;  people  were 
patient,  polite,  helpful.  He  thought  the  French  the 
pleasantest  people  in  the  world,  and  this  opinion  he 
never  changed.  Later,  when  he  learned  to  know  them 
better,  he  concluded  that  they  were  very  deliberately 
and  very  gallantly  gay  in  order  to  conceal  from  them- 
selves and  from  the  world  how  mortally  sad  they  were 
at  heart.  They  eschewed  those  virtues  which  made 
one  disagreeable,  and  they  indulged  only  in  such  vices 
as  really  amused  them,  and  in  consequence  they  made 
being  alive  a  fine  art. 

The  Hemingways  knew  Paris  as  they  knew  London, 
and  they  smoothed  his  path.  In  their  drawing-room 
Peter  met  that  dazzling  inner  circle  of  Parisian  soci- 
ety which  includes  talent  and  genius  as  well  as  rank, 
beauty,  and  wealth.  Then,  Mrs.  Hemingway  having 
first  seen  to  it  that  he  met  those  whom  she  wished  him 
261 


262  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

to  meet,  Peter  was  permitted  to  meet  those  whom  he 
himself  wished  to  meet ;  he  was  introduced  to  two  de- 
ceptively mild-mannered  young  Englishmen,  first 
cousins  named  Checkleigh,  students  in  one  of  the  great 
ateliers,  who  were  by  way  of  being  painters ;  and  to  a 
shock-headed  young  man  from  California,  a  sculptor, 
named  Stocks.  The  Englishmen  were  closely  related 
to  a  large-toothed,  very  important  Lady  Somethingor- 
other,  high  up  in  the  diplomatic  sphere,  and  the  Cali- 
fornian  possessed  a  truly  formidable  aunt.  Hence  the 
three  young  men  appeared  in  fashionable  circles  at 
decent  intervals.  Later,  Peter  learned  to  know  their 
redoubtable  relatives  as  "Rabbits"  and  "The  Gram- 
pus," and  he  once  saw  a  terrifyingly  truthful  portrait 
of  "Rabbits"  sketched  on  a  skittish  model's  bare  back, 
and  a  movingly  realistic  little  figure  of  "The  Gram- 
pus" modeled  by  her  dutiful  nephew  in  a  moment  of 
diabolical  inspiration.  It  was  explained  to  him  that 
God,  for  some  inscrutable  purpose  of  his  own,  gener- 
ally pleases  himself  by  bestowing  only  the  most  lim- 
ited human  intelligence  upon  the  wealthy  relatives  of 
poor  but  gifted  artists;  but  that  if  properly  ap- 
proached, and  at  not  too  frequent  intervals,  they  may 
be  induced  to  loosen  their  tight  purse-strings. 
Wherefore  one  must  somehow  manage  to  keep  on  good 
terms  with  them.  Witness,  Stocks  said,  his  forgiving 
— nay,  kindly — attitude  toward  The  Grampus;  see 
how  he  went  to  her  house  and  drank  her  loathly  tea 
and  ate  her  beastly  little  cakes,  even  though  she  re- 
garded a  promising  sculptor  as  a  sort  of  unpromising 
stone-cutter  who  couldn't  hold  down  a  steady  job, 


"I,  TOO,  IN  ARCADIA"  263 

and  had  vehemently  urged  him  to  go  in  for  building 
and  contracting  in  Sacramento,  California.  "And 
yet  that  woman  has  got  about  all  the  money  there  is 
in  our  family ! ' '  finished  Stocks,  bitterly. 

"Rabbits  takes  you  aside  and  talks  to  you  heart  to 
heart,"  said  the  younger  Checkleigh,  gloomily.  The 
elder  Checkleigh 's  face  took  on  a  look  of  martyrdom. 

"We  have  Immortal  Souls,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of 
anguish  and  affliction.  "I  ask  you,  as  man  to  man: 
Is  it  our  fault?" 

It  was  these  three  Indians,  then,  who  took  Peter 
Champneys  under  their  wing,  helped  him  find  the 
pleasantest  rooms  in  the  Quartier,  helped  him  furnish 
them  at  about  a  third  of  what  he  would  have  paid  if 
left  to  his  own  devices,  and  also  helped  him  to  shed 
his  skin  of  a  timid  provincial  by  plunging  him  to  the 
scalp  in  that  bubbling  cauldron  in  which  seethes  the 
creative  brain  of  France.  Serious  and  sad  young  men 
who  were  going  to  be  poets ;  intense  fellows  who  were 
going  to  rehabilitate  the  Drama,  or  write  the  Great- 
est Novel;  illustrators,  journalists,  critics,  painters, 
types  in  velvet  coats,  flowing  ties,  flowing  locks,  and 
astonishing  hats,  sculptors,  makers  of  exquisite  bits  of 
craftsmanship,  models,  masters,  singers  of  sorts, 
actors  and  actresses,  sewing-girls,  frightful  old  con- 
cierges; students  from  the  four  corners  of  the  earth 
driven  hither  by  the  four  winds  of  heaven,  came  and 
went  in  the  devil-may-care  wake  of  Stocks  and  the 
Checkleighs  and  disported  themselves  before  the  re- 
flective and  appreciative  eyes  of  Peter  Champneys. 
These  gay  Bohemians  laughed  at  him  for  what  Stocks 


264  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

called  his  spinterishness,  but  ended  by  loving  him  as 
only  youth  can  love  a  comrade. 

In  six  months  he  knew  the  Quartier  to  the  core. 
He  met  men  who  were  utter  blackguards,  whose  self- 
ish, cold-blooded  brutality  filled  him  with  loathing; 
he  met  women  with  the  soul  of  the  cat.  But  the 
Quartier  as  a  whole  was  sound-hearted ;  Peter  himself 
was  too  sound-hearted  not  to  know.  He  met  Youth 
at  work,  his  own  kind  of  work.  They  were  all  going 
to  do  something  great  presently, — and  presently 
many  of  them  did.  The  very  air  he  breathed  stimu- 
lated him.  Here  were  comrades,  to  whom,  as  to  him- 
self, art  was  the  one  supremely  important  thing  in 
the  universe.  They,  too,  were  climbers  toward  the 
purple  heights. 

Shy  young  men  who  work  like  mules  are  as  thick  as 
hops  in  any  art  center;  but  shy  young  men  who  are 
immensely  talented,  who  have  a  genius  for  steady 
labor,  and  who  at  the  same  time  have  not  only  the 
inclination  but  the  opportunity  to  be  generous,  are 
not  numerous  anywhere. 

Peter  Champneys  never  talked  about  himself,  made 
no  parade,  was  so  simple  in  his  tastes  that  he  spent 
very  little  upon  himself,  and  while  he  could  say  "No" 
to  impudence,  he  had  ever  a  quick,  warm  "Yes"  for 
need.  That  he  should  be  able  to  become  an  artist 
had  been  the  top  of  his  dream;  that  by  a  very  little 
self-denial  he  could  help  others  to  remain  artists,  left 
him  large-eyed  at  his  own  good  fortune.  He  experi- 
enced the  glowing  happiness  that  only  the  generous 
can  know. 


"I,  TOO,  IN  ARCADIA"  265 

On  Sundays  he  went  to  see  Emma  Campbell,  for 
whom  he  had  found  a  little  house  on  the  summit  of 
Montmartre,  on  the  very  top  of  the  Butte.  It  had  a 
hillside  garden,  with  a  dove-cote  in  it,  and  a  little 
kiosk  in  which  Emma  liked  to  sit,  with  the  cat  Satan 
on  her  lap,  and  projeck  at  the  strange  world  in  which 
she  found  herself.  She  shared  the  house  with  a  scene- 
painter  and  his  wife,  and  as  the  scene-painter  was  an 
Englishman,  Emma  could  talk  to  somebody  and  be 
understood.  Emma's  idea  of  happiness  was  leisure  to 
sew  squares  of  patchwork  together  for  quilts.  She 
had  brought  her  cut-out  quilt  scraps  with  her,  and 
she  sat  in  the  kiosk  and  sewed  little  pieces  of  colored 
calico  together,  while  the  big  cat  scampered  about  the 
garden,  or  lay  and  blinked  at  her,  and  all  Paris  lay 
spread  out  far  below,  the  spires  of  Notre  Dame  show- 
ing as  through  a  mist. 

On  Sundays  she  cooked  for  Peter, — old  homely 
Riverton  dishes, — and  waited  on  him  while  he  ate. 
Because  she  couldn't  read,  she  looked  forward  to 
Peter's  reading  what  she  reverently  called  "de 
Book."  Peter  had  been  reading  the  Bible  to  old 
darkies  all  his  life,  and  he  accepted  it  as  a  matter  of 
course  that  he  should  take  the  long  climb,  and  give 
up  a  part  of  his  Sundays,  to  save  Emma  Campbell 
from  being  disappointed  now.  Afterward,  Emma 
spoke  of  his  mother,  and  of  old,  familiar  things  they 
both  remembered.  Then  he  went  back  to  the  Quar- 
tier  feeling  as  refreshed  and  rested  as  if  he  'd  had  a 
swim  in  the  river  ' '  over  home. ' ' 

At  regular  intervals  he  appeared  at  Mrs.  Heming- 


266  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

way's,  and  kept  up  his  acquaintance  with  her  friends. 
When  she  told  him  to  accept  an  invitation,  he  resign- 
edly obeyed,  looking,  the  elder  of  the  Checkleigh  boys 
told  him,  as  if  he  were  doing  it  for  God's  sake.  He 
was  beginning  to  speak  French  less  villainously,  and 
this  made  things  easier  for  him.  He  could  carry  on 
a  simple  conversation,  by  going  slowly ;  and  he  almost 
understood  about  half  of  what  strangers  said  to  him. 
He  interested  one  or  two  fine  ladies  greatly,  and  they 
were  extremely  gracious  to  him.  Artists — that  is, 
young  and  unknown  artists  in  the  Quartier — are  more 
or  less  pleasant  to  read  about  in  the  pages  of  Miirger 
and  others,  but  they  are  too  often  beggarly  and  quite 
impossible  persons  in  real  life.  But  this  young  Amer- 
ican who  lived  in  the  Quartier  was  at  the  same  time 
on  a  footing  of  intimacy  in  the  exclusive  home  of  those 
so  charming  Hemingways,  who  were,  one  knew,  of  the 
grand  monde.  Was  it  true  that  the  American  painter 
was  very  wealthy?  Yes?  Ah,  del!  That  droll 
young  man  was  then  amusing  himself  by  living  in  the 
Quartier?  But  what  an  original!  His  family  ap- 
proved? He  was  an  orphanf  With  no  relations 
save  that  old  uncle  whose  heir  he  was?  Ah,  mon 
Dieu!  That  touched  one's  heart!  One  must  try  to 
be  very  pleasant  to  that  so  lonely  young  man!  And 
that  so  lonely  young  man  was  extended  mead  and 
balm  in  the  shape  of  invitations  to  very  smart  affairs. 
To  some  of  which  he  found,  at  the  last  minute,  he 
could  n  't  go,  for  the  simple  and  cogent  reason  that 
Checkleigh  or  Stocks  had  appropriated  his  dress  suit. 
"It  's  infernally  unlucky,  Rabbits  having  an  affair 


"I,  TOO,  IN  ARCADIA"  267 

on  to-night.  But  you  know  how  it  is,  Champ — 
she  'd  never  forgive  me  if  I  didn't  show  up.  Big- 
wigs from  home,  and  all  that,  and  she  feels  it  's  her 
duty  to  make  me  show  'em  I  have  n  't  become  an 
Apache.  And  my  togs  are  out  at  interest — one  has 
to  pay  one's  rent  sometimes,  you  understand,"  ex- 
plained Checkleigh,  who  was  dressing  before  Peter's 
mirror.  "You  don't  have  to  care:  you  aren't  com- 
pelled to  keep  in  her  good  graces!" 

"Oh,  all  right.  I  don't  mind.  I  only  accepted  to 
please  Mrs.  Hemingway." 

"Mrs.  Hemingway  is  my  very  good  friend.  At  the 
first  opportunity  I  shall  explain  to  her.  She  can 
readily  understand  that 

"One  may  go  without  relatives,  cousins,  and  aunts — 
But  civilized  man  cannot  go  without  pants. 

I  wish  you  hadn't  such  deucedly  long  legs,  Champ. 
Regular  hop-poles!"  grumbled  Checkleigh,  ungrate- 
fully. 

"They  are  poor  things,  but  mine  own,"  said  Peter, 
mildly.  "You  will  find  a  five-franc  piece  in  the  waist- 
coat pocket,  Checkleigh,  if  you  happen  to  want  it.  I 
keep  it  there  for  cab  fare." 

"If  I  happen  to  want  it!"  shrieked  Checkleigh. 
"Oh,  bloated  plutocrat,  purse-proud  millionaire,  I  al- 
ways happen  to  want  it!"  He  waved  an  eloquent 
hand  to  the  circumambient  air.  "He  has  five-franc 
pieces  in  his  waistcoat  pocket — and  no  Rabbits  in  his 
family!"  cried  Checkleigh.  "Now,  have  you  a  pre- 
sentable pair  of  gloves,  Croesus? —  Oh,  damn  your 


268  THE  PUEPLE  HEIGHTS 

legs,  Champneys!  Look  at  these  beastly  breeches  of 
yours,  will  you?  I  've  had  to  turn  'em  up  until 
you  'd  fancy  I  was  wearing  cuffs  on  the  ankles,  and 
still  they  're  too  long!" 

"You  should  have  cut  'em  off  a  bit — then  you 
wouldn't  look  as  though  you  were  poulticing  your 
shins.  And  they  'd  fit  me,  too/'  commented  Stocks, 
who  had  sauntered  in. 

Checkleigh  looked  at  Peter's  watch — his  own  was 
"out  at  interest"  along  with  his  dress  suit — and 
shook  his  head  dolefully. 

"If  you  'd  just  suggested  it  sooner,  I  could  have 
done  it — now  it  's  too  late."  he  lamented.  "Your 
progeny  will  probably  resemble  herons,  Champneys, 
and  serve  'em  right! —  Are  those  new  gloves?  I 
am  a  credit  to  Rabbits!"  And  he  rushed  off. 

"What  a  friend  we  have  in  Champ-neys, 
All  his  gloves  and  pa-ants  to  wear ! " 

Stocks  sang  in  a  voice  like  the  scraping  of  a  mat- 
tock over  flint;  one  saw  that  he  had  been  piously 
raised.  Then  he  hooked  his  arm  in  Peter's  and  the 
two  went  forth  to  join  the  joyous  hordes  surging  up 
the  Boul'  Miche,  and  to  dine  in  their  favorite  restau- 
rant, where  the  waiters  were  one's  good  friends,  and 
Madame  the  proprietress  addressed  her  Bohemians 
as  "mes  enfants."  Having  dined,  one  joined  one's 
brother  workers  who  waged  the  battle  of  Art  with 
jaws  and  gestures.  Bawling  out  the  slang  of  the  stu- 
dios, they  grimaced,  sneered,  shrugged,  praised,  de- 
molished. Nothing  was  sacred  to  these  young  savages 


"I,  TOO,  IN  ARCADIA"  269 

but  the  joy  of  the  present  They  had  no  past,  and 
the  future  hadn't  arrived.  They  lived  in  the  mo- 
ment, worked,  laughed,  loved,  and,  when  they  could, 
dined  When  one  had  a  handful  of  silver,  how  gay 
the  world  was !  How  one  wished  to  pat  it  on  the  back 
and  invite  it  to  come  and  be  merry  with  one ! 

In  the  full  stream  of  this  turbulent  tide,  behold 
Peter  Champneys ;  with  a  lock  of  his  black  hair  falling 
across  his  forehead ;  his  head  cocked  sidewise ;  and  his 
big  nose  and  clear  golden  eyes  giving  him  the  aspect 
of  a  benevolent  hawk,  like,  say,  Horus,  Hawk  of  the 
Sun.  Those  golden  eyes  of  his  saw  tolerantly  as  well 
as  clearly.  This  quiet  American  worked  like  a  fiend, 
yet  had  time  to  look  on  and  laugh  with  you  while  you 
played.  He  was  gravely  gay  at  his  best,  but  he 
did  n  't  neglect  the  good  things  of  his  youth.  And  he 
had  a  genius  for  playing  impromptu  Providence 
when  you  were  down  on  your  luck  and  about  all  in. 
Maybe  you  hadn't  dined  for  a  couple  of  days,  or 
maybe  you  were  pretty  nearly  frozen  in  your  room, 
as  you  had  no  fire;  and  you  were  wondering  whether, 
after  all,  you  weren't  a  fool  to  starve  and  freeze  for 
art's  sake,  and  whether,  all  things  considered,  life  was 
worth  living;  and  there  'd  be  a  gentle  tap  at  your 
door,  and  Peter  Champneys  would  stick  his  thin  dark 
face  in,  smilingly.  He  'd  tell  you  he  'd  been  lonely 
all  day,  and  would  you,  if  you  had  n 't  done  so  al- 
ready, kindly  come  and  dine  with  him?  He  spoke 
French  with  a  South  Carolina  accent,  in  those  days, 
but  an  archangel's  voice  could  not  then  have  sounded 
more  dulcet  in  your  ears  than  his.  Presently,  over 


270  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

your  cigarettes,  you  found  yourself  telling  him  just 
how  things  were  with  you.  Maybe  you  slept  on  a 
lounge  in  his  studio  that  night,  because  it  was  warmer 
there.  And  next  morning  you  could  face  life  and 
work  feeling  that  God  's  in  his  heaven,  all  's  right 
with  the  world.  That  's  what  Peter  Champneys 
meant  to  many  a  hard-pressed  youngster. 

With  his  immense  capacity  for  work,  at  the  end  of 
a  year  Peter  Champneys  had  made  great  strides. 
But  he  was  troubled.  Like  Millet,  he  couldn't  take 
the  ordered  direction.  He  felt  that  he  was  nierely 
marking  time,  that  he  wasn't  on  the  right  track. 
His  robust  and  original  talent  demanded  heartier 
food  than  was  offered  it.  Reluctantly  enough,  Peter 
withdrew  from  the  official  studio  to  which  he  was  at- 
tached, and  went  on  his  own.  It  was  a  momentous 
step. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  he  said  to  Emma  Campbell, 
seriously : 

"You  Ve  never  laid  eyes  on  a  goddess,  Emma, 
have  you?  Or  a  nymph?  Well,  neither  have  I. 
And  I  can't  paint  what  I  don't  know."  He  walked 
up  and  down  the  little  graveled  garden  path.  And 
he  burst  out:  "That  is  not  life.  It  is  not  truth. 
I  don't  want  gods.  I  only  see  men!  I  don't  want 
goddesses.  I  want  women,!" 

Emma  Campbell  said  in  a  scandalized  voice: 

"Dat  ain't  no  kind  o'  way  to  talk!  Leastwise," 
she  compromised,  "not  on  Sundays." 

Peter  burst  out  laughing.  Emma  wore  her  usual 
Sunday  cashmere,  with  a  snowy  apron  and  head- 


"I,  TOO,  IN  ARCADIA"  271 

handkerchief.  Satan  lay  upon  the  small  table  beside 
her,  in  the  attitude  of  a  sphinx,  his  black,  velvety 
paws  stretched  in  front  of  him,  his  inscrutable  eyes 
watching  the  restless  young  man.  Peter  paused,  and 
his  eyes  narrowed.  Then  he  snapped  his  fingers,  as 
he  had  done  when  he  was  a  little  boy  back  in  Riverton 
and  something  had  pleased  him. 

"I  've  got  it!"  he  shouted.  "Emma,  you  're  It!" 
No  one  ever  had  a  more  patient  model.  She 
couldn't  exackly  understan'  why  Mist'  Peter  should 
want,  to  paint  a  ole  nigger  like  her,  but  if  Peter 
Champneys  had  wanted  to  bury  her  alive  in  the 
ground,  with  only  her  head  sticking  out,  Emma  would 
have  known  it  had  to  be  all  right,  somehow.  So  she 
sat  for  weary  hours,  while  Peter  made  rough  sketches, 
and  tried  out  many  theories,  before  he  settled  down  to 
work  in  dead  earnest. 

And  presently  Emma  saw  herself  as  it  were  alive 
on  a  square  of  canvas,  so  alive  that  she  was  more  than 
a  bit  afraid.  She  said  it  looked  like  her  own  ha'nt, 
and  Emma  was  n't  partial  to  ha'nts.  There  she  sat  in 
her  plain  black  dress  and  her  plain  white  apron  and 
head-handkerchief,  and  her  gold  hoop  ear-rings. 
On  the  table  beside  her  were  the  vegetables  she  was  to 
prepare.  She  had  forgotten  work  for  the  time  being. 
Emma  projecked,  one  hand  resting  idly  on  the  table, 
the  other  on  the  great  black  cat  in  her  lap.  She 
looked  at  you,  with  the  wistfully  animal  look  of  a 
negro  woman,  who  is  loving,  patient,  kind,  long-suf- 
fering, imbued  with  a  terrible  patience,  and  of  a 
sound,  sly,  earthy  humor;  and  who  at  the  same  time 


272  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

is  childishly  credulous,  full  of  dark  passions,  and  witft 
the  fires  of  savagery  banked  in  her  heart.  There  she 
sat,  that  sphinx  that  is  Africa,  who  has  seen  the  white 
races  come,  and  who  will  probably  see  them  go;  you 
could  almost  sense  the  half-slumbrous  brain  of  her 
throbbing  under  her  head-handkerchief.  She  wasn't 
a  mere  colored  woman;  she  was  a  symbol  and  a  chal- 
lenge. And  her  eyes  that  had  seen  so  much  and 
wept  so  much  were  as  inscrutable  as  fate,  as  sphinx- 
like  as  the  cat's  who  watched  you  from  her  knee. 
The  whole  picture  breathed  an  amazingly  bold  and 
original  power,  and  was  so  arrestingly  vital  that  it 
gripped  and  held  one.  Down  in  one  corner,  painted 
with  exquisite  care  and  delicacy,  was  a  Red  Admiral. 

The  Quartier  came,  squinted  through  the  fingers, 
and  praised  and  dispraised,  after  its  wont.  The 
Symbolists  sneered  and  told  Peter  to  his  teeth  he  was 
a  Philistine;  they  said  you  can't  boot-lick  Nature: 
you  've  got  to  bully  her,  demand  her  soul,  make  her 
give  you  her  Sign!  Quieter  men  came  and  studied 
Emma  Campbell  and  her  cat,  and  clapped  Peter  on 
the  back;  the  more  exuberant  Latins  kissed  him, 
noisy,  hearty,  hairy  kisses  on  both  cheeks.  Undoubt- 
edly, it  would  be  accepted,  they  said! 

It  was,  and  hung  conspicuously.  There  were  al- 
ways small  groups  before  it,  for  it  created  something 
like  the  uproar  that  Manet's  "Olympia"  had  raised 
in  its  time.  Peter  learned  from  one  critic  that  his 
technique  was  magnificent,  his  picture  a  masterpiece 
of  psychology  and  of  portraiture,  and  that  if  he  kept 
on  he  'd  soon  be  one  of  the  Immortals.  He  learned 


"I,  TOO,  IN  ARCADIA"  273 

from  another  that  while  he  undoubtedly  had  technique, 
his  posing  was  commonplace,  his  subject  banal,  his  im- 
agination hopelessly  bourgeois;  that  he  was  a  painter 
of  the  ugly  and  the  ordinary,  without  inspiration  or 
imagination;  that  the  one  pretty  and  delicate  "note  in 
the  whole  canvas  was  the  butterfly  in  the  lower  left- 
hand  corner,  and  that  that  was  obviously  reminiscent 
of  Whistler,  who  on  a  time  had  used  a  butterfly  sig- 
nature !  But  on  the  whole  the  criticisms  were  highly 
favorable;  it  was  admitted  that  a  young  painter  of 
promise  had  arisen. 

Peter  Charnpneys  went  about  his  business,  indif- 
ferent to  praise  or  blame.  He  knew  he  was  a  way- 
faring man  whose  business  it  was  to  follow  his  own 
road,  a  road  he  had  to  hack  out  for  himself;  and 
somewhere  on  the  horizon  were  the  purple  heights. 

The  unbounded  delight,  the  disinterested  pride  of 
the  Hemingways,  couldn't  have  been  greater  had  he 
been  their  son.  Mrs.  Hemingway  gave  a  brilliant  en- 
tertainment in  his  honor,  and  he  was  feted  and  made 
much  of.  Young  ladies  who  danced  divinely  found 
his  stork-like  hopping  pleasing,  and  his  stammering 
French  delightful.  This  charming  Monsieur  Champ- 
neys,  you  see,  was  not  only  invested  with  the  glamour 
of  art;  he  was  the  heir  of  an  American  millionaire! 
Ah,  the  dear  young  man ! 

The  picture  was  sold  to  a  Spanish  nobleman,  who 
said  it  reminded  him  of  Velasquez's  "^sop";  he  was 
so  delighted  with  the  painter's  power  that  he  commis- 
sioned Peter  to  portray  his  own  long,  pale,  melan- 
choly visage.  Whereupon  the  two  Checkleighs  and 


274  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

Stocks  called  loudly  for  a  proper  celebration,  and 
Peter  honored  their  clamorous  demand.  It  was  a 
memorable  affair,  graced  by  the  Quartier's  darlingest 
models,  who  had  long  since  voted  M'sieu  Champnees 
a  bon  gargon.  A  Spanish  student,  in  a  velvet  coat 
and  with  long  black  hair,  insisted  upon  charcoaling 
mustachios  and  imperial  upon  his  host's  countenance, 
in  honor  of  his  countryman  who  had  distinguished 
himself  as  a  patron  of  art.  Later,  a  laughing  girl 
whose  blue-black  hair  was  banded  Madonna-wise 
around  a  head  considerably  otherwise,  washed  it  off 
with  a  table  napkin  dipped  in  wine.  She  sat  on  his 
knee  to  perform  the  operation,  scanned  his  clean  face 
with  satisfaction,  and  taking  him  by  the  ears  as  by 
handles,  kissed  him  gaily.  Then  she  went  back  to 
her  own  cher  ami,  who  was  n  't  in  the  least  disturbed. 
"It  is  like  kissing  thy  maiden  aunt,  Jacques,"  she 
told  him.  "Now,  with  thee — "  They  looked  at  each 
other  eloquently,  and  Peter  Champneys,  whose  eyes 
had  followed  the  girl,  smiled  crookedly.  An  unac- 
countable gloom  descended  upon  him.  All  these  lusty 
young  men  shouting  and  laughing  around  him,  all 
these  handsome,  ardent  young  women,  snatched  what 
joy  from  life  they  could ;  they  lived  their  hour,  know- 
ing how  brief  that  hour  must  be.  They  ate  to-day, 
starved  to-morrow;  but  they  were  rich  because  they 
loved,  because  they  laughed,  because  theirs  was  the 
passionate  unforced  comradeship,  the  intoxicating  joy 
of  youth.  Peter  Champneys,  whose  good  luck  was  be- 
ing celebrated,  looked  at  his  penniless,  hilarious  com- 
rades, and  twisted  a  smile  of  desperate  gaiety  to  his 


"I,  TOO,  IN  ARCADIA"  275 

lips.  He  had  never  in  his  life  felt  more  utterly 
alone. 

The  affair  ended  at  six  o'clock  the  next  morning, 
in  a  last  glad,  mad  romp  up  the  Boul'  Miche.  Peter 
and  Stocks  waved  good-by  to  the  last  revelers,  looking 
somewhat  jaded  in  the  fresh  morning  air.  The  two 
young  men,  both  rather  tired,  walked  slowly.  Ven- 
ders in  clacking  sabots  pushed  their  carts  ahead  of 
them,  shouting  their  wares.  Crowds  of  working-peo- 
ple poured  through  the  streets.  At  a  little  restaurant 
they  knew,  they  had  coffee  and  rolls.  While  they 
were  drinking,  a  girl  came  in.  Peter  looked  up  and 
saw  Denise. 

His  first  thought  was  that  she  would  have  been 
lovely  if  she  hadn't  been  so  thin.  Then  he  saw  how 
shabby  she  was,  and  how  neat.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  charming  than  her  chestnut  hair,  or  her 
blue  eyes  that  had  a  look  of  innocence,  or  her  fair 
and  transparent  complexion,  though  one  could  have 
wished  she  were  rosier.  She  did  not  look  around  with 
the  quick,  alert,  bright  glance  of  the  Parisienne  whom 
everything  interests  and  amuses;  she  had  the  ab- 
stracted and  sad  air  of  a  child  who  suffers,  and  whom 
suffering  bewilders. 

Stocks  said,  in  a  low  voice,  tinged  with  pity : 

"L'amie  de  Dangeau." 

Peter  received  that  announcement  with  a  shock  of 
surprise  and  distaste.  Dangeau  was  such  an  utter 
brute!  Handsome  in  his  way,  without  conscience  or 
pity,  Dangeau  would  have  eaten  his  mother's  heart 
to  satisfy  his  own  hunger,  or  wiped  his  feet  upon  his 


276  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

father's  beard.  The  gifted,  intellectual,  and  rapa- 
cious savage  seized  whatever  came  near  him  that 
pleased  his  fancy  or  aroused  his  curiosity,  extracted 
the  pith,  and  tossed  aside  what  no  longer  amused  or 
served  him.  There  was  no  generosity  in  him,  only  an 
insatiable  and  ferocious  demand  that  life  should  give 
him  more,  always  more !  Peter,  who  both  admired 
and  detested  him,  was  sorry  for  this  gentle  creature 
fallen  into  his  remorseless  claws.  And  he  wondered, 
as  decent  men  must,  at  the  fatal  fascination  animals 
like  Dangeau  seem  to  possess  for  women. 

He  saw  her  occasionally  after  that,  always  alone. 
Plainly,  things  were  not  well  with  her.  Her  pale  face 
grew  paler  and  thinner;  her  dress  shabbier.  The 
look  of  bewilderment  was  now  a  look  of  pain.  Her 
eyes  were  heavy,  as  if  they  wept  too  much.  Peter 
watched  her  with  a  troubled  heart.  One  day  Henri, 
the  gargon,  murmured  confidentially,  as  she  left  the 
cafe  after  a  particularly  slim  meal : 

"These  thin  little  blondes,  they  do  not  last  long. 
That  one  was  like  a  rose  when  I  first  saw  her.  Pauvre 
enfant!"  And  he  looked  after  her  with  a  compas- 
sionate glance. 

1  'She  seems — different, "  said  Peter.  "It  is  not 
well  with  her?" 

"Alas,  no!  She  is  from  the  provinces,  Monsieur, 
come  to  Paris  to  earn  more.  And  so  she  wearied  her 
ami.  You  know  him,  Monsieur;  he  is  a  restless  man, 
quickly  tiring — that  sculptor!  Also,  he  feared  she 
would  fall  sick  upon  his  hands — you  see  how  frail 
she  is,  and  he  abhors  all  that  is  not  robust."  And 


"I,  TOO,  IN  ARCADIA"  277 

Henri  made  an  expressive  gesture.  He  added:  "She 
is  of  the  sort  that  love,  Monsieur ;  and,  you  understand, 
that  is  fatal!" 

"And  how  does  she  manage  now?"  asked  Peter. 

Henri  shrugged  significantly.  Peter  drummed  on 
the  table  and  scowled.  A  little  girl,  from  the  pro- 
vinces !  One  understood  now  how  she  had  fallen  into 
Dangeau's  hands,  and  how,  inevitably,  he  had  tired, 
and  tossed  her  aside  like  a  wilted  flower.  And  now 
she  was  facing  slow  starvation — Oh,  damn ! 

Peter  slipped  some  change  into  Henri's  palm. 
"You  are  a  man  of  sense,  Henri.  Also,  I  see  that 
you  have  a  good  heart,"  said  he.  "Now  we  must 
see  what  we  can  do  for  this  poor  little  Mademoiselle, 
3*ou  and  I.  You  will  place  before  her  the  best  the 
house  affords — I  leave  that  to  you.  And  when  she 
protests  you  will  say  to  her:  'Your  venerable  god- 
father has  arranged  for  it,  Mademoiselle.  His  orders 
are,  that  you  come  here,  seat  yourself,  tap  once 
with  your  forefinger  upon  the  table, — and  your  orders 
will  be  obeyed.'  ' 

"And  if  she  questions  further,  Monsieur?" 

"Explain  that  you  obey  orders,  but  do  not  know 
her  godfather,"  said  Peter,  gravely. 

"Trust  me,  Monsieur!"  cried  the  delighted  Henri. 
And  from  that  moment  the  kindly  fellow  adored  Peter 
Champneys. 

The  little  game  began  the  next  day.  Denise  gave 
her  tiny  order;  Henri  came  back  with  a  loaded  tray, 
whose  savory  contents  lie  placed  before  her.  Out  of 
the  corner  of  his  eye  Peter  could  see  the  girl's  aston- 


278  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

ished  face  when  Henri  politely  insisted  that  the  meal 
was  hers — that  her  venerable  godfather  had  ordered 
it  for  her !  She  looked  timidly  and  fearfully  around ; 
but  nobody  was  paying  the  slightest  attention  to  her, 
and  after  deftly  arranging  the  dishes,  Henri  had 
whisked  himself  off.  She  waited  for  a  few  minutes; 
but  Henri  had  n  't  come  back.  And  then,  because  she 
was  almost  famished,  she  ate  what  had  been  given 
her.  Peter  felt  his  eyes  blur. 

Henri  came  back  to  her  presently  with  wine.  He 
dusted  the  bottle  lovingly,  and  filled  her  glass  with  a 
flourish.  She  looked  up  with  a  tremulous  smile: 

"My  godfather's  order,  Henri?" 

"Your  venerable  godfather's  order,  Mademoiselle," 
he  replied  sedately.  When  she  had  finished  her  din- 
ner, he  glibly,  and  with  an  expressionless  countenance 
repeated  Peter 's  instructions :  she  was  to  come  in,  seat 
herself,  tap  with  her  forefinger,  and  give  her  orders, 
which  would  be  instantly  obeyed!  No,  he  did  not 
know  her  godfather.  Nor  did  Monsieur  le  patron. 
No,  he  might  not  even  take  the  sous  she  offered  him  : 
all,  all,  had  been  arranged,  Mademoiselle! 

She  hesitated.  Then  she  called  for  pen  and  paper, 
and  scribbled  in  violet  ink: 

MOSTSIETTR  MY  GODFATHER, 

I  see  that  the  good  God  still  permits  miracles.  You  are  one. 
Accept,  then,  a  poor  girl's  thanks  and  prayers! 

Thy  godchild, 

DENISE. 

She  gave  this  to  Henri,  who  received  it  respect- 


"I,  TOO,  IN  ARCADIA"  279 

fully.  Then  she  went  out,  feeling  very  much  better 
and  brighter  because  of  a  sadly  needed  dinner.  She 
was  bewildered,  and  excited;  but  she  wasn't  afraid. 
She  accepted  her  miracle,  which  had  come  just  in 
the  nick  of  time,  gratefully,  with  a  childlike  simplicity. 
But  she  used  her  blue  eyes,  and  one  day  they  met 
Peter  Champneys's,  regarding  her  with  a  good  and 
kind  satisfaction;  for  indeed  she  looked  much  better 
and  brighter,  now  that  she  was  no  longer  half  starved. 
Denise  had  encountered  other  eyes,  men's  eyes;  but 
none  had  ever  met  hers  with  just  such  a  look  as 
she  saw  in  these  clear  and  golden  ones.  A  flash  of 
intuition  came  to  her.  Only  one  person  in  the  world 
could  have  eyes  like  that — it  must  be,  it  was,  he !  And 
she  watched  him  with  an  absorbed  and  breathless 
interest. 

In  these  small  restaurants  of  the  Quartier  one  sits 
so  close  to  one's  neighbors,  in  a  busy  hour,  that  con- 
versation is  n  't  difficult ;  it  is,  rather,  inevitable. 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  young  girl,  bravely  and  yet 
timidly,  on  an  occasion  when  they  almost  touched  el- 
bows, "Monsieur, — is  it  you  who  have  a  god- 
daughter?" 

"Mademoiselle,"  stammered  Peter,  who  hadn't  ex- 
pected the  question.  "I  do  not  know  your  god- 
father!" And  then  he  turned  red  to  his  ears. 

Her  face  broke  into  a  swift  and  flashing  smile. 
She  looked  so  like  a  happy  child  that  Peter  had  to 
smile  back  at  her,  and  presently  they  were  chatting 
like  old  acquaintances.  After  that  they  always 
managed  to  dine  together. 


280  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

They  found  each  other  delightful.  That  gloomy 
sense  of  loneliness  which  had  oppressed  Peter  vanished 
in  the  girl 's  presence.  As  for  Denise,  no  one  had  ever 
been  so  kind,  so  gentle,  so  generous  to  her  as  this 
wonderful  Monsieur  Champneys.  She  grew  quite 
beautiful;  her  eyes  were  a  child's  eyes,  her  face  like 
one  of  those  little  sweet  pinkish-white  roses  one  sees 
in  old-fashioned  gardens. 

She  had  no  relations ;  neither  had  Peter.  And  so  he 
took  Denise  into  his  life,  just  as  he  had  once  taken  a 
lost  kitten  out  of  the  dusk  on  the  Riverton  Road: 
there  really  was  nothing  else  for  him  to  do !  He  had 
for  her  something  of  the  same  whimsical  and  com- 
passionate affection  that  had  made  him  share  his 
glass  of  milk  with  the  little  cat.  She  belonged  to  him ; 
there  was  nobody  else. 

She  was  rather  a  silent  creature,  Denise.  She  had 
none  of  that  Latin  vivacity  which  wearies  the  listener, 
but  her  love  for  him  showed  itself  in  a  thousand 
gracious  ways,  in  innumerable  small  services,  in  lov- 
ing looks.  Just  to  touch  him  was  a  never-failing  joy 
to  her.  She  delighted  to  stroke  his  face,  to  trace 
with  her  small  fingers  the  outline  of  his  features. 
"That  is  the  pattern  on  the  inside  of  my  heart,"  she 
told  him.  She  had  a  quick,  light  tread,  pleasant  to 
listen  to,  and  her  rare  and  lovely  laughter  was  always 
a  delicious  surprise,  as  if  one  heard  an  unexpected 
chime  of  little  bells. 

Her  housewifely  ways,  her  pretty  anxiety  about 
spending  money,  amused  him  tenderly.  When  she 
could  perform  some  small  service  for  him,  she  hummed 


"I,  TOO,  IN  ARCADIA"  281 

little  hymns  to  the  Virgin.  Her  ministrations  ex- 
tended to  Stocks  and  the  Checkleighs,  whose  shirts  she 
mended  so  expertly  that  they  didn't  have  to  borrow 
so  many  of  Peter's.  She  was  so  happy  that  Peter 
Champneys  grew  happy  watching  her.  It  had  n  't 
seemed  possible  to  Denise  that  anybody  like  him 
could  exist ;  yet  here  he  was,  and  she  belonged  to 
him! 

Nobody  had  ever  loved  Peter  Champneys  in  quite 
the  same  way.  She  had  so  real  and  true  a  genius  for 
loving  that  she  exhaled  affection  as  a  flower  exhales 
perfume.  Loving  was  an  instinct  with  Denise.  She 
would  steal  to  his  side,  slip  her  arm  around  his  neck, 
kiss  him  on  the  eyes — "thy  beautiful  eyes,  Pierre!" — 
and  cuddle  her  cheek  against  his,  with  so  exquisite 
a  tenderness  in  touch  and  look  that  the  young  man's 
kind  heart  melted  in  his  breast.  He  could  n 't  speak. 
He  could  only  gather  her  close,  pressing  his  black 
head  against  her  soft  young  bosom. 

Her  cruel  experience  with  Dangeau  was  not  for- 
gotten; but  that  had  been  capture  by  force,  and  she 
remembered  it  as  a  black  background  against  which  the 
bright  colors  of  this  present  happiness  showed  with  a 
heavenlier  radiance.  Peter  himself  did  n 't  guess  how 
wholly  his  little  comrade  loved  him,  though  he  did 
realize  her  utter  selflessness.  She  never  asked  him 
troublesome  questions,  never  annoyed  him  with  irritat- 
ing jealousy,  made  no  demands  upon  him.  Was  he 
not  himself?  Very  well,  then:  did  not  that  suffice? 
Denise  didn't  think:  she  felt.  She  had  the  exquisite 
wisdom  of  the  heart,  and  in  her  small  hands  the  flower 


282  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

of  Peter  Champneys's  youth  opened  and  blossomed. 
He  was  young,  he  was  loved,  he  was  busy.  Oh,  but 
it  was  a  good  world  to  be  alive  in !  He  whistled  while 
he  worked.  And  how  he  worked!  To  this  period 
belong  those  angelic  heads,  chestnut-haired,  wistfully 
smiling,  with  blue  eyes  that  look  deep  into  one's 
heart.  The  airy  butterfly  that  signs  these  canvases 
is  not  so  much  a  symbol  as  a  prescience. 

When  was  it  he  first  noticed  that  for  all  his  love 
and  care  he  wasn't  going  to  be  able  to  keep  Denise? 
How  did  he  learn  that  the  great  last  lover  was  wooing 
her  away?  She  was  not  less  happy.  A  deep  and 
still  joy  radiated  from  her,  her  eyes  had  the  clear 
and  cloudless  happiness  of  a  child's.  But  he  ob- 
served that  on  their  pleasant  excursions  into  the  coun- 
try she  tired  quickly.  Her  little  light  feet  didn't 
run  any  more.  She  preferred  to  sit  cuddled  against 
his  side,  holding  his  hand  in  both  hers,  her  head 
pressed  against  his  shoulder.  She  did  n  't  talk,  but 
then,  he  was  used  to  her  silence ;  that  was  one  of  her 
sweetest  charms.  Her  cheek  grew  thinner,  but  the 
rose  in  it  deepened.  Then  the  pretty  dresses  he  loved 
to  lavish  upon  her  began  to  hang  loosely  upon  her 
little  body. 

It  was  a  frightened  young  man  who  called  in  doc- 
tors and  specialists.  But,  as  Henri  had  once  told 
him,  they  do  not  last  long,  these  frail  blondes.  Also, 
she  was  of  the  sort  that  loves — and  that,  you  under- 
stand, is  fatal ! 

Stocks,  who  had  made  a  great  pet  of  Peter's  pretty 
sweetheart,  blubbered  when  he  learned  the  truth,  and 


"I,  TOO,  IN  ARCADIA"  283 

the  younger  Checkleigh,  who  delighted  to  sketch  her, 
left  off  because  his  hand  shook  so,  and  he  couldn't 
see  clearly.  The  Spanish  student  in  the  velvet  coat, 
who  could  sing  lustily  to  a  guitar,  came  and  sang 
for  her,  not  the  ribald  songs  the  Quartier  heard 
from  him,  but  the  beautiful  and  soft  love  songs  he 
had  heard  as  a  child  in  Andalusia — how  love  is  an 
immortal  rose  one  carries  through  the  gates  of  the 
grave  into  the  gates  of  paradise.  And  the  Quartier, 
which  knows  so  much  sorrow  as  well  as  so  much  joy, 
came  with  its  gayest  gossip  to  make  her  smile.  Peter 
himself  lived  in  a  sort  of  tormented  daze. — It  was 
Denise,  his  little  Denise,  who  was  going! 

Denise  herself  was  the  calmest  and  cheerfulest  of 
them  all.  Her  high  destiny  had  been  to  love  Peter 
Champneys,  and  she  had  fulfilled  it.  The  good,  the 
kind  God  had  given  her  that  which  in  her  estimation 
outweighed  everything  else.  She  had  lived,  she  had 
loved.  Now  she  could  go,  and  go  content. 

"It  is  better  so,"  she  told  him,  with  that  piercing 
good  sense  of  the  French  which  is  like  a  spiritual  in- 
sight. "Very  dear  one,  suppose  7  had  been  called 
upon  to  let  thee  go :  how  could  I  have  endured  that  ? ' ' 
And  she  added,  pressing  his  fingers,  "Do  not  grieve, 
my  adored  Pierre.  Observe  that  I  am  but  a  poor 
little  one  to  whom  in  thy  goodness  of  heart  thou  hast 
been  kind:  but  thou  art  all  my  life — all  of  me, 
Pierre." 

He  put  his  head  against  her  side,  and  she  stroked 
it,  whispering, 

"I  had  but  a  little  while  to  stay,  beloved.    Because 


284  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

of  thee,  that  stay  has  been  happy — oh,  very,  very 
happy ! ' ' 

"You  have  given  me  all  I  ever  had  of  youth  and 
love,"  said  Peter. 

"Ah,  but  I  am  glad!"  she  said  naively.  "Because 
of  that,  I  think  you  must  remember!"  She  looked 
at  him  with  her  blue  eyes  suddenly  full  of  tears.  "It 
is  only  when  I  think  you  may  forget  that  I  am  afraid, 
it  is  then  as  if  the  dark  pressed  upon  me,"  she  said 
in  a  whisper  sharp  with  pain.  "I  lie  still  and  dream 
how  great  you  will  become,  how  much  beloved — for 
who  could  fail  to  love  you,  Pierre?  And  I  am  glad. 
It  rests  my  heart,  which  is  all  yours.  But  when  I 
begin  to  remember  how  I  have  been  but  a  little,  little 
part  of  your  life,  who  have  been  all  of  mine,  when 
I  think  you  may  forget,  then  I  am  afraid,  I  am 
afraid!"  And  she  looked  at  him  like  a  frightened 
child  who  is  being  left  alone  to  go  to  sleep  in  the  dark. 

Peter  picked  her  up,  wrapped  in  the  bedquilt,  and 
held  her  in  his  arms.  She  was  very  light.  It  was  as 
if  he  held  a  little  ghost.  She  shook  her  bright  hair 
over  his  shoulders  and  breast,  and  he  hid  his  quivering 
face  in  it,  as  in  a  veil.  Presently,  in  a  soft  voice : 

"Godfather!" 

"Yes,  my  little  sweetheart." 

"Very  dear  and  precious  godfather, — a  long,  long 
time  from  now,  when  She  comes,  She  whom  you  will 
love  as  I  love  you,  tell  her  about  me." 

"Denise,  Denise!"  cried  poor  Peter,  straining  her 
to  him. 

"Tell  her  I  had  blue  eyes,  and  a  fair  face,  and 


"I,  TOO,  IN  ARCADIA"  285 

bright,  bright  hair,  Godfather.  She  will  like  to  know. 
Say,  'Her  whole  wisdom  lay  in  loving  me  with  all 
her  heart — that  poor  Denise!'  Then  tell  her  that 
she  cannot  love  you  more,  my  Pierre, — but  that  in  my 
grave  I  shall  despise  her  if  she  dares  to  love  you  less."" 

"I— Oh,  my  God!"  strangled  Peter,  and  he  felt 
as  if  his  heart  were  being  wrenched  out  of  his  breast. 
He  was  in  his  twenties,  and  the  girl  in  his  arms  was 
all  he  knew  of  love. 

Some  six  weeks  later  Denise  died  as  quietly  as  she 
had  lived,  her  small  cold  hands  clinging  to  Peter 
Champneys's,  her  blue  eyes  with  their  untroubled, 
loving  gaze  fixed  upon  his  face.  When  that  beloved 
face  faded  from  her  the  world  itself  had  faded  from 
Denise. 

He  had  n  't  dreamed  one  could  suffer  as  he  was 
called  upon  to  suffer  then.  The  going  of  little  Denise 
seemed  to  have  torn  away  a  living  and  quivering  part 
of  his  spirit.  She  had  loved  him  absolutely,  and 
Peter  couldn't  forget  that.  His  gratitude  was  an 
anguish.  It  is  not  the  duration  but  the  depths  of  an 
experience  which  makes  its  ineffaceable  impression, 
upon  the  heart. 

Mrs.  Hemingway  saw  his  changed  looks  with  con- 
cern. If  she  and  her  husband  suspected  anything, 
they  did  not  torment  him  with  questions;  they  didn't 
even  appear  to  notice  that  he  was  silent  and  ab- 
stracted. 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  the  boy?"  wor- 
ried Mrs.  Hemingway.  ''John,  do  you  think  it  's 


286  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

"Petticoat?    What  else  should  it  be?" 

"I  can't  bear  to  think  of  Peter  getting  himself  into 
some  sort  of  scrape  with  possibly  some  miserable 
woman — who  will  prey  upon  him,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Hemingway. 

"Peter  's  not  the  sort  that  falls  for  adventuresses. 
He  might  fall  in  love  with  some  girl,  and  be  cut  up 
if  she  did  n't  reciprocate.  That  's  what  's  the  matter 
with  him  now,  if  I  'm  not  mistaken." 

Hemingway  took  Peter  fishing  with  him.  It  is  a 
pleasant  place,  the  Seine  near  Poissy.  Hemingway 
let  Peter  sit  in  a  boat  all  day,  and  didn't  seem  to 
observe  that  the  line  wasn't  once  drawn  in.  The 
river  was  rippling,  the  sky  bright  blue,  the  wind 
sweet.  All  around  them  were  other  boats,  full  of 
people  who  appeared  to  be  happy.  And  Heming- 
way's silent  companionship  was  strong  and  kind  and 
serene.  Insensibly  Peter  reacted  to  his  surroundings, 
to  the  influence  of  the  shining  day.  "When  they  were 
returning  to  Paris  that  evening,  he  looked  at  his  big 
compatriot  gratefully.  Then  he  told  him.  Heming- 
way listened  in  silence.  Then: 

"I  'm  damned  glad  she  had  you,"  said  he,  and 
polished  his  eyeglasses,  and  put  his  hand  on  Peter's 
shoulder  with  a  consoling  and  sympathetic  touch. 
Hemingway  understood.  He  was  that  sort. 

Youth  departs,  love  perishes,  faith  faints;  but  that 
we  may  never  be  left  hopeless,  work  remains  and  saves 
us.  Peter's  work  came  to  his  succor.  Just  at  this 
crucial  time  his  Eminence  the  Austrian  Cardinal  ap- 
peared, and  Peter  had  n  't  time  to  mope. 


"I,  TOO,  IN  ARCADIA"  287 

The  cardinal  had  seen  the  picture  of  Emma  Camp- 
bell and  her  cat.  He  had  seen  an  enchanting  sketch 
of  the  Spanish  student  in  the  velvet  coat,  recently 
purchased  by  a  friend  of  his.  And  now  his  own  por- 
trait must  be  painted.  He  was  so  great  a  cardinal, 
of  so  striking  a  personality,  that  his  own  noble  family 
had  an  immense  pride  in  him,  and  the  Vatican,  along 
with  certain  great  temporal  powers,  took  him  very 
seriously.  So  the  painting  of  the  cardinal's  portrait 
wouldn't  be  a  light  undertaking,  to  be  given  at  ran- 
dom. This  and  that  great  painter  was  urged  upon 
him.  But  the  astonishing  portrait  of  that  old  colored 
woman  and  her  cat  decided  his  Eminence,  who  had 
a  will  of  his  own.  Here  was  his  artist!  Also,  he 
insisted  upon  the  cat. 

The  anticlerical  press  of  Paris  was  insisting  that 
the  cardinal's  stay  in  the  French  capital  was  of 
sinister  import.  The  cardinal  smiled,  and  Peter 
Champneys  besought  his  gods  to  let  him  get  that 
smile  on  canvas.  His  Eminence  was  an  ideal  sitter. 
He  spoke  English  beautifully,  and  it  pleased  him  to 
converse  with  the  lanky  young  American  painter  in 
his  mother  tongue.  He  felt  drawn  to  the  young  man, 
and  when  the  cardinal  liked  one,  he  was  irresistible. 
Peter  was  so  fascinated  by  this  brilliant  and  versatile 
aristocrat,  so  deeply  interested  in  the  psychology  of 
a  great  Roman  prelate,  a  prince  of  the  Church,  that 
he  forgot  everything  except  that  he  was  a  creative 
artist — and  a  great  sitter,  a  man  worthy  of  his  best, 
was  to  be  portrayed. 

He  gave  his  whole  heart  to  his  task,  and  he  brought 


288  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

to  it  a  new  sense  of  values,  born  of  suffering.  When 
he  had  finished,  you  could  see  the  cardinal's  soul 
looking  at  you  from  the  canvas.  The  smile  Peter 
prayed  to  catch  curves  his  lips,  a  smile  that  baffles  and 
enchants.  He  wears  his  red  robes,  and  one  fine, 
aristocratic  hand  with  the  churchly  ring  on  it  rests 
upon  the  magnificent  cat  lying  on  the  table  beside  him. 
That  superb  "Cardinal  with  the  Cat"  put  the  seal 
upon  Peter  Champneys's  reputation  as  a  great  artist. 
He  knew  what  he  had  achieved.  Yet  his  lips 
quivered  and  his  eyes  were  smileless  when,  down  in 
the  left-hand  corner,  he  painted  in  the  Red  Admiral. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   OTHER   MAN 

IN  Florence  the  nascent  swan-feathers  of  Anne 
Champneys    grew    into    perfect    plumage.     She 
was  like  a  spirit  new-born  to  another  world,  with 
all  the  dun-colored  ties  of  a  darker  existence  swept 
away,  and  only  a  residue  of  thought  and  feeling  left 
of  its  former  experience.     This  bright  and  rosy  world, 
enriched  by  nature  and  art,  was  so  new,  its  values 
were  so  different,  that  at  first  she  was  dazed  into 
dumbness  by  it. 

She  came  face  to  face  with  beauty  and  art  made  a 
part  of  daily  life.  She  thought  she  had  never 
seen  color,  or  flowers,  or  even  a  real  sky,  until  now. 
An  existence  unimaginably  rich,  vistas  that  receded 
into  an  almost  fabled  past,  opened  and  spread  before 
her  glamourously.  The  vividness  of  her  impressions, 
her  reaction  to  this  new  phase  of  experience,  the  whole- 
souled  ardor  with  which  she  flung  herself  into  the 
study  of  Italian,  her  eagerness  to  know  more,  her 
delight  in  the  fine  old  house  in  which  they  had  set 
up  their  household  gods,  amused  and  charmed  Mrs. 
Vandervelde.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  teaching  and 
training  an  unspoiled,  delighted,  and  delightful  child, 
and  contact  with  this  fresh  and  eager  spirit  stimu- 
lated her  own. 

289 


290  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

Many  of  her  former  school  friends,  girls  belonging 
to  fine  Florentine  families,  some  now  noble  matrons, 
mothers  of  families,  one  or  two  great  conventual  su- 
perioresses, still  resided  in  the  city,  and  these  wel- 
comed their  beloved  Marcia  delightedly.  There  were, 
too,  the  American  and  English  colonies,  and  a  coterie 
of  well-known  artists.  Marcia  Vandervelde  was  a 
born  hostess,  a  center  around  which  the  brightest  and 
cleverest  naturally  revolved.  She  changed  the  large, 
drafty  rooms  of  the  old  palace  into  charming  reflec- 
tions of  her  own  personality.  A  woman  of  wide  sym- 
pathies and  cultivated  tastes,  she  delighted  in  the 
clever  cosmopolitan  society  that  gathered  in  her  draw- 
ing-room; and  it  was  in  this  opalescent  social  sea 
that  she  launched  young  Mrs.  Champneys. 

Mrs.  Champneys  was  at  first  but  a  mild  success,  a 
sort  of  pale  luminosity  reflected  from  the  more  domi- 
nant Mrs.  Vandervelde.  But  it  so  happened,  that  a 
gifted  young  Italian  lost  his  heart  at  sight  to  her 
red  hair  and  green  eyes,  and  discovering  that  she  had 
no  heart  of  her  own — at  least,  none  for  him — he  wrote, 
in  a  sort  of  frenzy  of  inspiration,  a  very  fine  sonnet 
sequence  narrating  his  hapless  passion.  The  poet  had 
been  as  extravagantly  assertive  as  poets  in  love  usually 
are,  and  the  sonnets  were  really  notable ;  so  the  young 
man  was  swept  into  a  gust  of  fame ;  all  Italy  read  his 
verse  and  sympathized  with  him.  The  object  of  a 
popular  poet's  romantic  and  unfortunate  love  is  al- 
ways the  object  of  curiosity  and  interest,  as  Anne 
Champneys  discovered  to  her  surprise  and  annoy- 


THE  OTHER  MAN  291 

' '  He  was  such  a  little  idiot ! ' '  she  told  Marcia  Van- 
dervelde,  disgustedly.  "Always  sighing  and  rolling 
his  eyes,  and  looking  at  one  like  a  sick  calf, — more 
than  once  I  was  tempted  to  catch  him  by  the  shoul- 
ders and  shake  him!" 

"He  's  a  poet,  my  child,"  said  Mrs.  Vandervelde, 
mischievously,  "and  you  're  the  lady  in  the  case. 
It  's  been  the  making  of  him,  and  it  hasn't  done  you 
any  harm :  you  '11  be  a  legend  in  your  own  lifetime. ' ' 

Marcia  was  quite  right.  The  poet's  love  clung  to 
Anne  like  an  intangible  perfume,  and  a  halo  of  ro- 
mance encircled  her  red  head.  The  Florentines  dis- 
covered that  she  was  beautiful ;  the  English  and  Amer- 
icans, cooler  in  judgment,  found  her  charming.  And 
a  noted  German  artist  came  along  and  declared  that 
he  had  found  in  her  his  ideal  Undine. 

Mrs.  Peter  remained  unchanged  and  unimpressed. 
She  shrugged  indifferent  shoulders ;  she  was  n  't  par- 
ticularly interested  in  herself  as  the  object  of  poetic 
adoration. 

She  was,  however,  immensely  interested  in  the 
beauty  and  romance  of  Florence.  The  street  crowds, 
so  vivacious,  so  good-humored,  the  vivid  Florentine 
faces,  enchanted  her.  More  astonishing  than  storied 
buildings,  or  even  imperishable  art,  were  the  figures 
that  moved  across  the  red-and-gold  background  of  the 
city's  history, — figures  like  Dante,  Lorenzo  the  Mag- 
nificent, and  that  great  prior  of  San  Marco  whose 
"soul  went  out  in  fire."  Curiously  enough,  it  was 
Savonarola  who  made  the  most  profound  impression 
upon  her.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  immortal  monk 


292  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

still  dominated  Florence,  and  when  she  saw  his  old 
worn  crucifix  in  his  cell  at  San  Marco,  something 
awoke  in  her  spirit, — a  sense  of  religious  values.  Re- 
ligion, then,  was  not  a  mere  fixed  convention,  sub- 
scribed to  as  a  sort  of  proof  of  conservatism  and  re- 
spectability;  religion  was  really  a  fixed  reality,  an 
eternal  power.  She  read  everything  that  she  could 
lay  her  hands  on  covering  the  history  of  Fra  Girolamo. 
Then  she  bought  a  picture  of  his  red  Indian-like 
visage,  and  hung  it  up  in  her  room.  The  titanic 
reformer  remained,  a  shadowy  but  very  deep  power, 
in  the  background  of  her  consciousness,  and  it  was 
this  long-dead  preacher  who  taught  her  to  pray.  He 
won  her  profoundest  reverence  and  faith,  because  he 
had  been  true,  he  had  sealed  his  faith  with  his  life; 
she  felt  that  she  could  trust  him.  His  honesty  ap- 
pealed to  her  own. 

It  was  such  curious  phases  as  this  of  the  girl's  un- 
folding character,  that  made  her  a  never-failing  source 
of  interest  to  Marcia  Vandervelde.  Under  her  super- 
imposed, surface  indifference,  Marcia  reflected,  Anne 
had  a  deep  strain  of  pure  unworldliness,  vast  possibili- 
ties. Give  Anne  an  ideal,  once  arouse  her  enthusiasm, 
and  she  was  capable  of  tossing  aside  the  world  for  it. 
Marcia  was  vastly  interested,  too,  in  the  serene  de- 
tachment of  the  girl's  attitude  toward  all  those  with 
whom  she  came  in  contact.  One  might  evoke  inter- 
est, sympathy,  compassion,  even  a  quiet  friendliness, 
but  her  heart  remained  quiet,  aloof,  secure  from  inva- 
sion. Handsome  young  men  who  fell  in  love  with 


THE  OTHER  MAN  293 

her — and  there  were  several  such — seemed  unable  to 
stir  any  emodon  in  her,  except  perhaps,  an  impatient 
resentment.  Marcia,  of  course,  knew  nothing  of 
Glenn  Mitchell.  But  Anne  Champneys  remembered 
him  poignantly.  She  had  learned  her  lesson. 

They  had  been  some  six  or  eight  months  in  Florence 
when  Mr.  Berkeley  Hayden  put  in  his  appearance, 
somewhat  to  Mrs.  Vandervelde  's  surprise.  She  had 
not  expected  this!  She  studied  her  old  friend  specu- 
latively.  H  'm !  She  remembered  the  pale  face  of 
the  young  Italian  poet  whose  sad  sonnets  all  Italy 
was  reading  with  delight.  Then  she  looked  at  the 
red-headed  source  of  those  sonnets, — and  she  had  no 
doubt  as  to  the  cause  of  Mr.  Hayden 's  appearance  in 
Florence  at  this  time, — and  wondered  a  bit.  The  sit- 
uation gave  a  fillip  to  her  imagination ;  it  was  piquant. 
One  wondered  how  it  would  end. 

Peter  Champneys?  Marcia  scented  disruption, 
where  that  impalpable  relationship  was  concerned. 
She  was  ignorant  as  to  Anne's  real  feelings  and  in- 
tentions in  regard  to  her  absentee  husband.  Anne 
never  mentioned  him.  She  bore  his  name,  she  held 
herself  rigidly  aloof  from  all  lovers;  herein  one  saw 
her  sole  concessions  to  the  tie  binding  her.  Marcia 
didn't  see  how  it  was  possible  that  the  two  should 
avoid  hating  each  other;  the  mere  fact  that  they  had 
been  arbitrarily  forced  upon  each  other  by  the  im- 
perious will  of  old  Chadwick,  would  inevitably  mili- 
tate against  any  hope  of  future  affection  between 
them.  And  now  here  was  Berkeley  Hayden,  quite  as 


294  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

imperious  as  Chadwick  Champneys  had  ever  been, 
and  who  was  quite  as  successful  in  getting  what  he 
wanted. 

Anne  had  welcomed  Mr.  Hayden  gladly.  She  was 
honestly  delighted  to  see  him.  Florence  had  taught 
her,  signally,  the  depths  of  her  own  lack  of  culture, 
and  this  biting  knowledge  increased  her  respect  for 
Mr.  Berkeley  Hayden.  Marcia  was  immensely  clever, 
charmingly  cultivated,  a  woman  of  the  world  in  the 
best  sense,  but  Anne's  native  shrewdness  told  her 
that  Marcia 's  knowledge  was  not  equal  to  Hay  den's. 
His  culture  was  surer  and  deeper.  He  was  more 
than  a  mere  amateur;  he  knew.  He  stood  apart,  in 
her  mind,  and  just  a  little  higher  than  anybody  else. 
She  turned  to  him  eagerly,  and  there  was  established 
between  them,  almost  unconsciously,  the  most  potent, 
perfect,  and  dangerous  of  all  relationships,  because 
it  is  the  most  beautiful  and  natural, — that,  in  which 
the  man  is  the  teacher  and  the  woman  the  pupil. 

Hayden  saw  her,  too,  to  greater  advantage,  here 
under  this  Florentine  sky,  against  the  background  of 
perhaps  the  most  beautiful  city  in  the  world.  She 
glowed,  splendidly  young  and  vivid.  She  did  not 
laugh  often,  but  when  she  did,  it  was  like  a  peal  of 
music;  it  came  straight  from  her  heart  and  went 
direct  to  yours.  It  was  as  catching  as  fire,  as  ex- 
hilarating as  the  chime  of  sleigh-bells  on  a  frosty 
Thanksgiving  morning,  as  clear  and  true  as  a  red- 
bird  's  whistle ;  and  it  had  tucked  away  in  it  a  funny, 
throaty  chuckle  so  irresistibly  infectious  that  sus- 
picious old  St.  Anthony  himself,  would  have  joined 


THE  OTHEB  MAN  295 

in  accord  with  it,  had  he  heard  its  silver  echo  in  his 
wilderness.  Berkeley  Hayden's  immortal  soul  stood 
on  the  tiptoe  of  ecstasy  when  Anne  Champneys 
laughed. 

She  no  longer  thought  of  herself  as  Nancy  Simms ; 
she  knew  herself  now  as  Anne  Champneys,  a  newer 
and  better  personality  dominating  that  old,  unhappy, 
ignorant  self.  If  at  times  the  man  glimpsed  that 
other  shadowy  self  of  hers,  it  was  part  of  her  mys- 
terious appeal,  her  enthralling,  baffling  charm.  It 
invested  her  with  a  shade  of  inscrutable,  prescient 
sorrow,  as  of  old  unhappy  far-off  things.  He  hadn't 
the  faintest  idea  of  Nancy  Simms,  a  creature  utterly 
foreign  to  his  experience.  And  because  she  did  not 
love  him,  Anne  Champneys  never  spoke  of  that  old 
self,  never  confided  in  him.  He  did  not  know  her 
as  she  had  been,  he  only  knew  her  as  she  was  now. 
That,  however,  fully  satisfied  his  critical  taste.  The 
marvel  of  her  alabaster  skin,  fleckless  and  flawless, 
the  glory  of  her  glittering  red  hair,  the  sea-depths 
of  her  cool,  gray-green  eyes,  the  reserve  of  her  ex- 
pression, the  virginal  curve  of  her  lip,  enchanted 
him.  He  liked  the  tall,  slender  strength  of  her,  the 
lightness  of  her  step,  her  grace  when  she  danced,  her 
spirited  pose  when  she  rode.  Here  was  the  woman, 
the  one  woman,  to  bear  his  name,  to  be  the  mistress 
of  his  house.  She  was  the  only  woman  he  had  ever 
really  wished  to  marry.  And  she  was  nominally  mar- 
ried to  Peter  Champneys. 

Hayden  was  honorable.     Had  hers  been  a  real  mar- 
riage, had  she  been  a  happy  wife,  he  would  have  re- 


296  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

spected  the  tie  that  bound  her,  and  gone  his  way. 
But  the  situation  was  exceptional.  She  was  n  't  really 
a  wife  at  all,  and  like  Mrs.  Vandervelde,  he  could  see 
in  such  a  marriage  nothing  but  a  cause  for  mutual 
disgust  and  dislike.  Well,  then,  if  he  loved  her,  and 
Peter  Champneys  didn't,  he  certainly  was  not  work- 
ing Peter  Champneys  any  harm  in  winning  away 
from  him  a  wife  he  didn't  want.  Why  should  he 
stand  aside  and  let  her  go,  for  such  a  shadow  as  that 
ceremony  had  been?  The  Champneys  money?  That 
meant  nothing  weighed  in  the  balance  with  his  de- 
sire. He  could  give  her  as  much,  and  more,  than  she 
would  forego.  Mrs.  Berkeley  Hayden  would  eclipse 
Mrs.  Peter  Champneys. 

Deliberately,  then,  but  delicately,  after  his  fashion, 
Hayden  set  himself  to  win  Anne  Champneys.  He  felt 
that  his  passion  for  her  gave  him  the  right.  He 
meant  to  make  her  happy.  She  could  have  her  mar- 
riage annulled.  Then  she  would  become  Mrs.  Berkeley 
Hayden.  Even  the  fact  that  he  really  knew  very  little 
about  her  did  not  trouble  him.  He  coveted  her,  and 
he  meant  to  have  her. 

He  read  the  young  Italian's  sonnets,  which  she  had 
inspired,  and  they  made  him  thoughtful.  He  could 
readily  understand  the  depths  of  feeling  such  a  woman 
could  arouse.  Had  she  no  heart,  as  the  Italian  la- 
mented? He  wondered.  It  came  to  him  that  she 
was,  in  truth,  detached,  sufficient  to  herself,  an  un- 
gregarious  creature  moving  solitarily  in  a  mysterious 
world  all  her  own.  What  did  she  think  ?  What  did 


THE  OTHER  MAN  297 

she  feel  ?  He  did  n  't  know.  He  was  allowed  to  see 
certain  aspects  of  her  intelligence,  and  her  quickness 
of  perception,  the  delicacy  of  her  fancy,  her  child- 
like and  morning  freshness,  and  a  pungently  shrewd 
Americanism  that  flashed  out  at  odd  and  unexpected 
moments,  never  failed  to  delight  him.  But  her 
deeper  thoughts,  her  real  feelings,  her  heart,  re- 
mained sealed  and  closed  to  him. 

He  saw  half-pleasedly,  half -jealously  the  interest 
she  aroused  in  other  men.  Nothing  but  her  almost 
unbelievable  indifference  held  his  jealousy  in  check. 
He  reflected  with  satisfaction  that  she  was  on  a 
friendlier  footing  with  him  than  with  any  other  man 
of  her  acquaintance,  that  she  had  a  more  instant  wel- 
come for  him  than  for  any  other,  and  for  which 
cause  he  was  cordially  hated  by  several  otherwise 
amiable  gentlemen.  And  then  he  waxed  gloomy,  re- 
membering how  emotionless,  how  impersonal,  that 
friendship  really  was.  At  times  he  laughed  at  him- 
self wryly,  recalling  the  passionate  friendship  other 
women  had  lavished  upon  him,  and  how  wearisome  it 
had  been  to  him,  how  he  had  wished  to  escape  it.  If 
but  a  modicum  of  that  passion  had  been  bestowed  upon 
him  by  this  girl,  how  changed  the  world  would  be  for 
him! 

And  in  the  meantime  Anne  Champneys  liked  him 
serenely,  was  grateful  to  him,  aware  that  his  intellect 
was  as  a  key  that  was  unlocking  her  own ;  welcomed 
him  openly  and  was  maddeningly  respectful  to  him. 
This  made  him  rage.  What  did  she  think  he  was, 


298  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

anyhow?  An  old  professor,  an  antiquarian,  an 
archaeologist?  She  might  as  well  consider  him  an 
antediluvian  at  once ! 

"Marcia,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Vandervelde  one  eve- 
ning, "I  want  you  to  tell  me  all  you  know  about  this 
Champneys  business.  Just  exactly  how  does  the  af- 
fair stand?"  Anne  had  been  carried  off  by  some 
American  friends,  the  smart  throng  that  had  filled 
Mrs.  Vandervelde 's  rooms  had  gone,  and  Hayden  and 
his  hostess  had  the  big,  softly  lighted  drawing-room 
to  themselves.  At  his  query  Mrs.  Vandervelde  turned 
in  her  chair,  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand  the  bet- 
ter to  observe  him. 

"Why,  you  know  as  much  as  I  do,  Berkeley!  You 
know  how  and  why  the  marriage  was  contracted,  and 
what  hinges  upon  it,"  said  she,  cautiously. 

He  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "I  want  to  know 
what  she  's  going  to  do.  Surely  she  isn't  going  to 
allow  herself  to  be  bound  by  that  old  lunatic's  will, 
is  she?" 

' '  He  was  n  't  an  old  lunatic ;  he  was  an  old  genius. 
Jason  had  an  almost  superstitious  reverence  for  his 
judgment.  Somehow,  his  plans  always  managed  to 
come  out  all  right, — in  the  end.  Even  when  they 
seemed  wild,  they  came  out  all  right.  They  're  still 
coming  out  all  right." 

"And  you  think  this  insane  marriage  is  likely  to 
come  out  all  right  in  the  end,  too  ? "  he  asked  sharply. 

"I  don't  know.  Stranger  things  have  happened. 
Why  shouldn't  this?" 

"Why  should  it?     That  fellow  Champneys—" 


THE  OTHER  MAN  299 

"Is  said  to  be  a  great  painter.  At  least,  he  is  cer- 
tainly a  very  successful  one.  Whether  or  not  he  can 
make  good  as  Anne  Champneys's  husband  remains  to 
be  seen."  Mrs.  Vandervelde  was  not  above  the  in- 
nate feminine  cattiness.  Hayden  rose  abruptly  and 
began  to  pace  the  room.  He  was  vaguely  aware  that 
he  had  been  astrally  scratched  across  the  nose. 

"And  you  think  a  girl  like  Anne  will  be  willing  to 
play  patient  Griselda?"  he  asked,  scornfully. 

' ' 1  don 't  know.    You  think  she  should  n  't  ?  " 

"I  think  she  shouldn't.  I  tell  you  frankly  he 
does  n 't  deserve  it. ' ' 

"Oh,  as  for  that!"  said  Mrs.  Vandervelde,  airily. 

Hayden  paused  in  his  restless  walk,  and  looked  at 
her  earnestly. 

"Berkeley,"  said  she,  changing  her  light  tone,  "am 
I  to  understand  that  you  are — really  in  earnest?" 

"I  am  so  much  in  earnest,"  he  replied,  deliberately, 
"that  I  do  not  mind  telling  you,  Marcia,  that  I  want 
this  girl.  More,  I  mean  to  have  her,  if  I  can  make 
her  care  for  me." 

She  considered  this  carefully.  He  had  never  known 
what  it  meant  to  have  his  wishes  thwarted,  and  now 
he  would  move  heaven  and  earth  to  win  Anne  Champ- 
neys.  Well,  but! —  She  liked  Hayden,  and  she 
did  n't  think,  all  things  considered,  that  Anne  Champ- 
neys  could  do  better,  if  she  wished  to  have  her  mar- 
riage to  Peter  annulled,  than  to  marry  Berkeley. 
But  how  would  Jason  consider  such  a  move?  Jason 
had  been  greatly  attached  to  old  Mr.  Champneys. 
Indeed,  his  connection  with  that  astute  old  wizard 


300  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

had  just  about  doubled  their  income.  Jason  would  n't 
be  likely  to  look  with  friendly  eyes  upon  this  bring- 
ing to  naught,  what  he  knew  had  been  Champneys's 
fondest  scheme.  She  said,  after  a  pause: 

''Does  Anne  know?" 

"Who  knows  what  Anne  knows?  But  on  the  face 
of  it,  I  should  say  she  doesn't.  At  least,  she  does  n't 
appear  to.  I  have  been  very — circumspect,"  said  he, 
moodily.  And  he  added  angrily:  "She  seems  to 
regard  me  as  a  sort  of  cicerone,  a  perambulating,  vocal 
Baedeker ! ' ' 

Mrs.  Vandervelde  smiled  openly.  "It  is  your  sur- 
est hold  upon  her.  I  should  n  't  cavil  at  it,  if  I  were 
you.  To  Anne  you  are  the  sum  total  of  human  knowl- 
edge. Your  dictum  is  the  last  word  to  be  said  about 
anything." 

But  Berkeley  still  looked  sulky.  The  idea  of  being 
what  Sydney  Smith  said  Macaulay  was — a  book  in 
breeches — didn't  appeal  to  him  at  all. 

"What  would  you  advise  me  to  do?"  he  asked, 
after  a  pause. 

She  said  reflectively:  "Let  her  alone  for  a  while, 
Berkeley.  If  her  liking  for  you  grows  naturally  into 
affection, — and  it  may,  you  know, — that  would  be  best. 
If  you  try  to  force  it,  you  may  drive  her  from  you 
altogether.  I  tell  you  frankly,  she  is  not  in  the  least 
interested  in  any  man  as  a  lover,  so  far  as  I  can 
judge. ' ' 

He  was  forced  to  admit  the  truth  of  this.  She 
was  n 't.  She  seemed  to  dislike  any  faintest  sign  of 
loverliness  from  any  man  toward  her.  Hayden  had 


THE  OTHER  MAN  301 

observed  her  icy  attitude  toward  the  painter  who  had 
fancied  he  found  in  her  his  ideal  Undine,  and  who 
showed  too  openly  his  desire  to  help  her  gain  a  soul 
for  herself.  The  idea  that  she  might  look  at  him  as 
she  had  looked  at  the  painter  was  highly  unpleasant 
to  him.  He  asked  again : 

"But  wliat  am  I  to  do?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Vandervelde,  succinctly. 

"But  suppose  she  falls  in  love  with  somebody 
else. ' ' 

"She  is  more  likely  to  fall  in  love  with  you,  I 
should  imagine,  if  you  keep  quiet  for  a  while  and 
allow  her  to  do  so.  Just  remain  her  guide,  phi- 
losopher, and  friend,  can't  you?" 

The  clever,  cosmopolitan  Mr.  Berkeley  Hayden 
tugged  at  his  short  mustache  and  looked  astonishingly 
like  a  sulky  school-boy. 

"Well,  if  you  think  that  's  the  best  thing  I  can 
do — "  he  began. 

"I  know  it  is,"  said  she.  And  she  reflected  that 
even  the  cleverest  man,  when  he  is  really  in  love,  is 
something  of  a  fool. 

Here  Anne  herself  came  in  and  the  three  dined  to- 
gether, a  statuesque  maid  in  a  yellow  bodice  and  a 
purple  skirt  waiting  on  them.  Agata's  "Si?"  was 
like  a  flute-note,  and  the  two  women  loved  to  see  her 
moving  about  their  rooms.  It  was  like  having  Hebe 
wait  on  them. 

Anne  turned  to  Hayden  eagerly.  She  wished  his 
opinion  of  a  piece  of  tapestry  an  antiquarian  in  the 
Via  Ricasoli  wished  to  sell  her.  Would  he  go  and 


302  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

look  at  it  with  her?  And  there  was  an  old  lamp  she 
fancied  but  of  the  genuineness  of  which  she  wasn't 
sure.  And  she  added,  dropping  her  voice,  that  she  'd 
gotten  a  copy  of  one  of  Fra  Girolamo  Savonarola's 
sermons,  beautifully  done  on  vellum,  evidently  by 
some  loving  monkish  follower  of  his.  Did  n't  he  want 
to  see  it  ?  She  looked  at  him  eagerly.  Mrs.  Vander- 
velde,  catching  his  eye,  smiled. 

Hayden  played  his  part  beautifully,  concealing  the 
tumult  of  his  feelings  under  the  polished  surface  of 
the  serene  manner  that  Anne  so  greatly  admired. 
He  made  himself  indispensable;  he  gave  her  his  best, 
unstintedly,  and  Hayden  at  his  best  was  inimitable. 
Marcia  Vandervelde  regarded  him  with  new  respect 
and  admiration.  Berkeley  was  really  wonderful ! 

"When  he  took  his  departure,  Anne  Champneys  felt 
that  the  glamour  of  Florence  had  departed  with  him. 
It  was  as  if  the  sunshine  had  been  withdrawn,  along 
with  that  polished  presence,  that  gem-like  mind.  She 
missed  him  to  an  extent  that  astonished  her.  She 
thought  that  even  Giotto's  Campanile  looked  bleak, 
the  day  Berkeley  Hayden  left. 

"I  'm  going  to  miss  you  hideously,"  she  told  him 
truthfully. 

"I  hope  so,"  he  said  guardedly.  He  did  not  wish 
to  show  too  plainly  how  overjoyed  he  was  at  that  ad- 
mission. "And  I  'm  going  to  hope  you  '11  find  me 
necessary  in  New  York.  I  'm  looking  forward  to  see- 
ing you  in  New  York,  you  know.  I  have  two  new 
pictures  I  want  you  to  see." 

Her  face  brightened.     "Your  being  there  will  make 


THE  OTHER  MAN  303 

me  glad  to  go  back  to  New  York,"  she  said  happily. 
And  Hayden  had  to  resist  a  wild  impulse  to  shout, 
to  catch  her  in  his  arms.  He  went  away  with  hope  in 
his  heart. 

But  Mrs.  Vandervelde,  watching  her  closely,  thought 
she  was  too  open  in  her  regret.  N-no,  Anne  was  n  't  in 
love  with  Hayden — yet.  She  picked  up  her  studies, 
to  which  he  had  given  impetus,  with  too  hearty  a 
zest.  And  when  he  wrote  her  amusing,  witty,  de- 
lightful letters,  she  was  too  willing  to  have  Marcia 
read  them. 

They  remained  in  Italy  six  months  or  so  more; 
and  then  one  day  Anne  returned  from  a  picnic,  and 
said  to  Marcia  abruptly : 

"Would  you  mind  if  I  asked  you  to  leave  Flor- 
ence,— if  I  should  want  to  go  home  ? ' ' 

Marcia  said  quietly:  "No.  If  you  wish  to  go,  we 
will  go.  Are  you  tired  of  Italy  ?" 

Anne  Champneys  looked  at  her  with  wide  eyes. 
For  a  moment  she  hesitated,  then  ran  to  Marcia,  and 
clung  to  her  with  her  head  against  her  friend's  shoul- 
der. 

"You  're  so  good  to  me — and  I  care  so  much  for 
you, — I  '11  tell  you  the  truth, ' '  she  said  in  a  whisper. 
"I — I  heard  something  to-day,  Marcia, — he  's  coming 
to  Rome — soon.  And  of  course  he  '11  come  here,  too. ' ' 

"He?—    Who?" 

"Peter  Champneys,"  said  Peter's  wife,  and  liter- 
ally shook  in  her  shoes.  Her  clasp  tightened.  Mar- 
cia put  her  arms  around  her,  and  felt,  to  her  surprise, 
that  Anne  was  frightened. 


304  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

"You  are  sure?" 

"Yes.  I  heard  it  accidentally,  but  I  am  sure. 
You  know  how  pretty  the  Arno  is  at  the  spot  where 
we  picnicked.  We  strolled  about,  and  I — did  n  't  want 
to  talk  to  anybody,  so  I  slipped  away  by  myself. 
There  were  a  couple  of  English  artists  painting  near 
by,  and  just  as  I  came  up  I  overheard  what  they 
were  saying.  Marcia, — they  were  talking  about — 
him.  They  said  he  'd  been  called  to  Rome  to  paint 
somebody's  picture, — the  pope's,  maybe, — and  they'd 
probably  see  him  here,  later.  They  seemed  to  be — 
friends  of  his,  from  the  way  they  spoke."  She  shiv- 
ered. "Italy  isn't  big  enough  to  hold  us  two!"  she 
said,  desperately.  "Marcia,  I  can't — run  the  risk  of 
meeting  Peter  Champneys.  Not  until  I  have  to.  I — 
I  Ve  got  to  get  away ! ' '  Her  voice  broke. 

"All  right,  dear.  We  '11  go,"  said  Mareia,  sooth- 
ingly. "Jason  's  about  finished  his  work  in  Brazil, 
and  he  '11  be  back  in  New  York  by  this.  Do  you  want 
to  go  directly  home?" 

"Yes,"  said  Anne  Champneys.  "Italy  's  a  very 
little  place  compared  with  America.  Let  's  go  back 
to  America,  Marcia." 

Mrs.  Vandervelde  stroked  the  red  head.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  fate  was  playing  into  Mr.  Berkeley  Hay- 
den's  hands. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   GUTTER-CANDLE 

ALTHOUGH  the  Champneys  house  was  tightly 
closed,  with  the  upper  door  and  windows 
boarded  up,  the  blonde  person  in  shoddy 
fineries  rang  the  area  bell  on  the  chance  that  there 
must  be  a  caretaker  somewhere  about  the  premises. 
She  felt  that  when  one  has  come  upon  such  an  errand 
as  hers,  one  mustn't  leave  any  stone  unturned;  and 
she  could  n  't  trust  to  a  haphazard  letter.  An  impas- 
sive and  immaculate  Japanese  opened  the  door,  and 
stood  looking  at  her  without  any  expression  at  all. 
Had  the  blonde  person  baldly  stated  her  errand,  the 
Japanese  would  probably  have  closed  the  door  and 
that  would  have  been  the  end  of  it.  But  she  didn't 
speak;  after  a  sharp  glance  at  him  she  opened  her 
gay  hand-bag,  extracted  a  slip  of  paper,  handed  it 
to  him,  and  stood  waiting. 

The  Japanese  read :  "I  wish  you  'd  do  what  you 
can,  for  my  sake,"  and  saw  that  it  was  addressed  to 
Mr.  Chadwick  Champneys  and  signed  by  Mr.  Peter 
Champneys.  It  had  evidently  been  carefully  kept, 
and  for  a  long  time,  as  the  creases  showed.  The  Japa- 
nese stood  reflecting  for  a  few  moments,  then  beck- 
oned the  blonde  person  inside  the  house,  ushering  her 
into  a  very  neat  basement  sitting-room. 

' '  For  you  ? "  he  asked,  glancing  at  the  slip  of  paper. 


306  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

"Me?  No.  I  come  for  a  lady  friend  o'  mine. 
You  might  tell  'em  she  's  awful  sick  an'  scared, — 
just  about  all  in,  she  is, — or  she  wouldn't  of  sent. 
But  he  said  she  was  to  come  here  an'  hand  in  that 
slip  I  've  just  gave  you.  That  's  how  I  come  to  bring 
it." 

"All  right.  You  wait,"  said  the  Japanese,  and 
glided  from  the  room.  It  was  the  first  time  Hoichi 
had  received  any  message  from  the  new  master,  as 
he  knew  Mr.  Peter  Champneys  to  be;  if  the  message 
was  genuine,  he  was  sure  that  Mr.  Chadwick  Champ- 
neys, had  he  been  alive,  would  have  investigated  it. 
Hoichi  couldn't  imagine  how  the  blonde  person  had 
gotten  hold  of  such  a  slip  of  paper,  signed  by  Mr. 
Peter  Champneys.  If  there  was  some  trick  behind 
it,  some  ulterior  motive  underlying  it,  then  Hoichi 
proposed  to  have  the  trickster  taught  a  needed  lesson. 
He  was  a  suspicious  man  and  visions  of  clever  rob- 
bers planning  a  raid  on  the  premises  rose  before 
him.  He  would  run  no  risks,  take  no  chances.  He 
rang  up  Mr.  Jason  Vandervelde,  fortunately  caught 
the  lawyer  at  home,  and  faithfully  repeated  the  blonde 
person's  message.  He  insisted  that  the  signature  was 
genuine;  he  had  seen  many  letters  addressed  to  the 
late  Mr.  Champneys  by  his  nephew,  and  he  would 
recognize  that  writing  anywhere.  He  asked  to  be  in- 
structed. 

"Tell  her  to  wait  half  an  hour  and  I  '11  be  there," 
said  the  lawyer  upon  reflection. 

The  blonde  person  was  leaning  back  in  a  Morris 
chair,  tiredly,  when  Vandervelde  was  ushered  into  the 


THE  GUTTER-CANDLE  307 

basement  sitting-room.  He  recognized  her  type  with 
something  of  a  shock.  She  was  what  might  be  called 
— charitably — a  peripatetic  person,  and  she  reeked 
of  very  strong  perfume.  The  lawyer's  eyes  nar- 
rowed, while  he  explained  briefly  that  he  represented 
the  Champneys  interests.  Would  she  explain  as  con- 
cisely as  possible  just  why  and  for  whom  she  had 
come? 

She  explained  ramblingly.  Mr.  Vandervelde  gath- 
ered that  a  certain  "lady  friend"  of  hers,  one  Gracie 
Cantrell,  now  in  the  hospital,  said  her  prayers  to  Mr. 
Peter  Champneys,  whom  she  had  met  on  a  time,  and 
who  had  advised  her  if  "ever  she  needed  help  to  apply 
to  his  uncle,  and  to  tell  him  that  he  had  sent  her. 
Feeling  herself  down  and  wit  now,  she  had  done  so. 

"Honest  to  Gawd,  the  poor  little  simp  thinks  this 
feller  's  a  angel.  Why, — when  she  gets  out  o'  her 
head,  she  don't  rave  about  nothin'  but  him,  beggin' 
him  to  help  her.  Ain't  it  somethin'  fierce,  though?" 
The  blonde  person  dabbed  at  her  eyes  with  a  scented 
handkerchief. 

Mr.  Vandervelde  rubbed  his  nose  thoughtfully.  A 
girl  down  and  out,  a  waif  in  a  city  ward,  in  her  de- 
lirium calling  upon  Peter  Champneys  for  help,  did  n't 
sound  at  all  good  to  him.  In  connection  with  that 
penciled  slip  which  seemed  to  imply  that  she  had  a 
right  to  expect  help,  it  smacked  of  possible  heart- 
interest — sob-stuff — so  dear  to  enterprising  special 
writers  for  a  yellow  press.  He  couldn't  understand 
how  or  where  Peter  had  met  the  girl;  possibly  some 
youthful  foolishness  back  there  in  Carolina.  Maybe 


308  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

she  'd  followed  him  north,  to  become  what  her  friend- 
ship with  such  as  the  blonde  person  indicated.  Van- 
dervelde  was  a  cautious  man  and  he  thought  he 
had  better  investigate  that  message,  written  before 
Chadwick  Champneys's  death. 

"My  car  's  outside,"  he  told  the  blonde  person 
briefly.  "We  '11  see  this  Gracie  at  once  and  find  out 
just  what  's  to  be  done." 

It  was  past  the  hour  for  visitors,  but  Vandervelde 's 
card  procured  them  admittance  to  the  ward  where 
Gracie  lay.  At  sight  of  the  big-eyed,  white-faced, 
wasted  little  creature  who  looked  at  him  with  such 
a  frightened  and  beseeching  stare,  Vandervelde  's  sus- 
picions of  her  died.  No  matter  what  she  had  been, — 
and  the  house-physician's  brief  comment  on  her  case 
left  him  in  no  doubt, — this  poor  wrecked  bit  of  hu- 
manity beached  upon  the  bleak  shore  of  a  charity 
ward  was  harmless.  He  absolved  her  of  all  evil  in- 
tent, of  any  desire  to  obtain  anything  under  false 
pretenses.  He  even  absolved  the  blonde  person,  who 
despite  her  brassy  hair,  her  hectic  face,  had  of  a 
sudden  become  a  kind,  gentle,  and  soothing  presence. 

"Well,  dearie,  you  got  a  straight  tip  from  that 
feller.  All  I  had  to  do  was  to  show  that  piece  o' 
paper  he  give  you,  and  this  kind  gent  'man  come  right 
off  to  see  you,"  said  the  blonde  cheerfully.  "An' 
now  maybe  he  '11  be  wantin'  to  talk  with  you,  so  I  '11 
leave  you  be.  Good  night,  dearie,"  and  she  stepped 
away  quietly,  a  trail  of  perfume  in  her  wake,  so  that 
Vandervelde 's  nose  involuntarily  wrinkled. 

Gracie  lay  and  looked  at  her  visitor. 


THE  GUTTER-CANDLE  309 

"You  ain't  his  uncle.  You  don't  look  nothin'  at 
all  like  him,"  said  she,  disappointedly. 

"No.  His  uncle  is  dead.  I  'm  the  lawyer  who 
has  the  estate  in  charge.  So  you  can  tell  me  just 
exactly  what  you  know  about  Mr.  Peter  Champneys, 
and  then  tell  me  what  I  can  do  for  you." 

He  spoke  so  kindly  that  Gracie's  spirits  revived. 
She  told  him  just  exactly  what  she  knew  about  Mr. 
Peter  Champneys,  which  of  course  was  very,  very 
little.  Yet  this  much  was  luminously  clear:  of  all 
the  men  Gracie  had  ever  encountered,  of  all  her  ex- 
periences, Peter  Champneys  and  the  hour  he  had  sat 
and  talked  with  her  stood  out  clearest,  clean,  touched 
with  a  soft  and  pure  light,  a  solitary  sweet  remem- 
brance in  a  sodden  and  sordid  existence. 

"Like  a  angel,  he  was.  I  never  seen  nobody  with 
such  a  way  o'  lookin'  at  you.  Never  pretended  he 
didn't  understand,  but  treated  me  like  a  lady.  I 
couldn't  never  forget  him.  I  kep'  the  piece  o'  paper 
he  give  me,  mostly  because  it  was  somethin'  belongin' 
to  him  an'  it  sort  o'  proved  I  hadn't  dreamed  him. 
I  never  meant  to  ask  for  no  help — but  when  I  come 
here — an'  there  wasn't  nothin'  else  to  do,  I  kep'  re- 
memberin'  he  said  I  was  to  go  to  his  uncle  an'  say 
he  'd  sent  me.  I— I  'm  scared !  My  Gawd !— I  'm 
scared ! ' ' 

He  remembered  once  seeing  a  trapped  rabbit  die 
of  sheer  terror.  This  girl,  trapped  by  the  inevitable, 
reminded  him  unpleasantly  of  the  rabbit.  His  kind 
heart  contracted.  He  asked  gently: 

"What  is  it  you  are  so  afraid  of,  Gracie?     Try 


310  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

to  tell  me  just  what  you  want  me  to  do  for  you." 

Perspiration  appeared  upon  her  forehead.  She 
clutched  him  with  a  skeleton  hand. 

"I  'm  scared  o'  bein'  cut  up!"  she  whispered  fear- 
fully. "Oh,  for  Gawdsake,  save  me  from  bein'  cut 
up ! "  Her  eyes  widened ;  in  her  thin  breast  you  could 
see  her  laboring  heart  thumping.  "I  want  you  keep 
'em  from  cuttin'  me  up!"  she  repeated  feverishly. 

"Cutting  you  up?"  Vandervelde  looked  at  her 
wonderingly. 

"Yes.  I  heard  'em  say  I  didn't  have  no  chanst. 
They  put  you  in  the  morgue — afterward — when 
you  're  folks  like  me,  and  then  the  doctors  come  and 
get  you  and  cut  you  up.  I  don't  want  to  be  cut  up ! 
For  Christ 's  sake,  don 't  you  let  'em  cut  me  up ! " 

Vandervelde  felt  a  sort  of  sick  horror.  He  could  n't 
quite  understand  Grade's  psychology;  her  unrea- 
soning, ignorant  terror. 

"Why,  my  poor  girl,  what  a  notion!  You — "  he 
stammered. 

"I  been  treated  bad  enough  alive  without  bein' 
cut  up  when  I  'm  dead,"  said  she,  interrupting  him. 
"I  get  to  thinkin'  about  it,  wakin'  up  here  in  the 
night.  He  said  his  folks  'd  help  me  if  I  asked  'em." 

"Of  course,  of  course!  Certainly  we'll  help!" 
said  Vandervelde  hastily. 

"If  I  had  any  money  saved  up,  'twould  n't  be  so 
bad.  But  I  ain't.  "We  never  do.  I — I  been  sick  a 
long  time.  What  clothes  I  had  they  kep'  against  the 
rent  I  was  owin',  when  they  told  me  to  get  out.  An' 
I  walked  an'  walked, — an'  then  one  o'  them  cops  in 


THE  GUTTER-CANDLE  311 

Central  Park,  he  seen  me,  an'  next  thing  I  knew  I  was 
here." 

She  was  getting  hysterical,  and  he  saw  that  it  was 
quite  useless  to  try  to  reason  with  her;  the  one  way  to 
allay  her  terror  was  to  make  the  promise  she  im- 
plored. 

"Well,  now  that  your  message  has  reached  us, 
Gracie,  you  need  not  be  afraid  any  more,  because 
what  you  fear  won't  happen;  it  can't  happen. 
There! —  Put  it  out  of  your  mind." 

She  stared  at  him  intently,  and  decided  that  this 
large,  fair  man  was  one  to  be  implicitly  trusted. 

"You  bein'  one  o'  his  people,  if  you  say  it  won't 
happen,  then  it  won't  happen,"  she  told  him,  and 
fetched  a  great  sight  of  relief.  "Oh!  I  was  that 
scared  I  'most  died!  I — I  just  naturally  can't  bear 
the  idea  o'  bein'  turned  over  to  them  doctors."  And 
she  shuddered. 

"Well,  now  that  you  're  satisfied  you  won't  be, 
suppose  you  tell  me  something  more  immediate  that 
I  can  do  for  you.  Isn't  there  something  you  'd 
like?" 

"I  'd  like  it  most  of  anything  if  you  'd  tell  me 
somethin'  about  Mm,"  she  said  timidly.  "I  know 
I  got  no  right  to  ast,  me  bein'  what  I  am,"  she  added, 
apologetically.  ' '  You  see,  nobody  ever  behaved  to  me 
like  he  did,  an'  I  can't  forget  him." 

She  looked  so  pathetically  eager,  her  look  was  so 
humble,  that  Vandervelde  could  n't  find  it  in  his  heart 
to  deny  the  request.  He  found  himself  telling  her 
that  Peter  Champneys  had  become  a  great  painter, 


312  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

that  he  had  never  returned  to  America,  and  that  his 
wife  also  was  abroad. 

"Is  the  lady  he  's  married  to  as  nice  as  him?  I 
sure  hope  she  's  good  enough  for  him,"  was  Gracie's 
comment. 

Seeing  how  mortally  weak  she  was,  Vandervelde 
took  his  departure,  promising  to  see  her  again.  He 
had  a  further  interview  with  the  house-physician  and 
the  head  nurse.  Whatever  could  be  done  for  her 
would  be  done,  but  they  had  handled  too  many  Gracies 
to  be  optimistic  about  this  particular  one.  They  knew 
how  quickly  these  gutter-candles  flicker  out. 

Commonplace  as  the  girl  was,  she  managed  to  win 
Vandervelde 's  interest  and  sympathy.  That  she  had 
won  young  Peter  Champneys's  didn't  surprise  him. 
He  was  glad  that  she  had  had  that  one  disinterested 
and  kindly  deed  to  look  back  to.  The  boy's  quixotic 
behavior  brought  a  smile  to  the  lawyer's  lips.  Fancy 
his  wishing  to  send  such  a  girl  to  his  uncle  and 
being  sure  that  old  Chadwick  would  n  't  misunder- 
stand! Gracie  cast  a  new  light  upon  Peter  Champ- 
neys,  and  a  very  likable  one.  Vandervelde  had  seen 
in  the  uncle  something  of  that  same  unworldliness  that 
the  nephew  displayed,  and  it  had  established  the  hu- 
man equation  between  Peter  and  the  shrewd  old 
man. 

Busy  as  he  was,  he  managed  to  see  Gracie  again. 
She  had  refused  to  be  put  into  a  private  room;  she 
preferred  the  ward. 

"It  's  not  fittin',"  she  said.  "Anyhow,  I  don't 
want  to  stay  by  myself.  When  I  wake  up  at  night 


THE  GUTTER-CANDLE  313 

I  want  to  feel  people  around  me, — even  sick  people  's 
better  than  nobody.  It  's  sort  o'  comfortin'  to  have 
comp'ny,"  and  she  stayed  in  the  ward,  sharing  with 
less  fortunate  ones  the  fruit  and  flowers  Vandervelde 
had  sent  to  her.  Once  the  gripping  fear  that  had 
obsessed  her  had  been  dispelled,  once  she  was  sure 
of  a  protecting  kindness  that  might  be  relied  upon, 
she  proved  a  gay  little  body.  As  the  blonde  person 
said,  Gracie  wasn't  a  bad  sort  at  all.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  neither  was  the  blonde  person.  Vandervelde 
saw  that,  and  it  troubled  his  complacent  satisfaction 
with  things.  He  saw  in  the  waste  of  these  women  an 
effect  of  that  fatally  unmoral  energy  ironically  called 
modern  civilization.  He  wondered  how  Marcia,  or 
Peter's  wife,  would  react  to  Gracie.  Should  he  tell 
them  about  her?  N-no,  he  rather  thought  not. 

Marcia  had  cabled  that  she  and  Anne  were  leaving 
Italy — were,  in  fact,  on  their  way  home.  During  his 
wife 's  absence  he  had  had  to  make  two  or  three  South 
American  trips,  to  safeguard  certain  valuable  Champ- 
neys  interests.  The  trips  had  been  highly  successful 
and  interesting,  and  he  hadn't  disliked  them,  but 
Vandervelde  was  incurably  domestic ;  he  liked  Marcia 
at  the  household  helm. 

' '  I  wanted  to  hire  half  a  dozen  brass-bands  to  meet 
you, ' '  he  told  his  wife  the  morning  of  her  arrival,  and 
kissed  her  brazenly.  "Marcia,  you  are  prettier  than 
ever!  As  for  Anne — "  At  sight  of  Anne  Champ- 
neys  his  eyes  widened. 

4 'Why,  Anne!—  Why  Anne!"  He  took  off  his 
glasses,  polished  them,  and  stared  at  his  ward.  Mar- 


314  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

cia  smiled  the  pleased  smile  of  the  artist  whose  work 
is  being  appreciated  by  a  competent  critic.  She  was 
immensely  proud  of  the  tall  fair  girl,  so  poised,  so 
serene,  so  decorative. 

"As  a  target  for  the  human  eye,"  said  Vander- 
velde,  fervently,  "you  're  more  than  a  success:  you  're 
a  riot!" 

Anne  slipped  her  hand  into  the  crook  of  his  arm. 
"I  'm  glad  you  like  me,"  said  she,  frankly.  "It  's 
so  nice  when  the  right  people  like  one. ' ' 

Hayden  was  not  in  town.  He  didn't,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  know  that  they  had  left  Italy,  for  Anne's  last 
letter  had  said  nothing  of  any  intention  to  return  to 
America  shortly.  Anne  felt  curiously  disappointed 
that  he  wasn't  at  the  pier  with  Jason  to  meet  them. 
She  was  surprised  at  her  own  eagerness  to  see  him. 
He  pleased  her  more  than  any  man  she  had  ever  met, 
and  her  impatience  grew  with  his  absence. 

Marcia,  a  born  general,  was  already  planning  with 
masterly  attention  to  details  the  social  career  of  Mrs. 
Peter  Champneys.  With  the  forces  that  she  could 
command,  the  immense  power  that  Berkeley  Hayden 
would  swing  in  her  favor,  and  the  Champneys  money, 
that  career  promised  to  be  unusually  brilliant,  when 
one  considered  Anne  herself. 

The  Champneys  house  was  to  be  reopened.  In  the 
main,  as  Chadwick  Champneys  had  planned  it,  it 
pleased  Marcia 's  critical  taste.  Anne  herself  appre- 
ciated as  she  had  been  unable  to  do  when  she  first 
came  to  it.  She  liked  its  fine  Aubusson  carpets,  its 
lovely  old  rosewood  and  mahogany  furniture,  its  un- 


THE  GUTTER-CANDLE  315 

cluttered  stateliness.  But  there  were  certain  changes 
and  improvements  she  wished  made,  and  she  took  a 
businesslike  pleasure  in  supervising  the  carrying  out 
of  her  orders.  The  portrait  of  Mr.  Chadwick  Champ- 
neys,  painted  the  year  before  his  death  hung  over 
the  library  mantel  and  seemed  to  watch  her  thought- 
fully, critically,  with  its  fine  brown  eyes.  The  girl 
he  had  snatched  from  obscure  slavery  liked  to  study 
the  visage  of  the  old  monomaniac  who  had  been  the 
god  in  the  machine  of  her  existence.  Her  judgment 
of  him  now  was  clear-eyed  but  cold.  He  had  been 
liberal  because  it  fell  in  with  his  plans.  He  had 
never  been  loving. 

She  was  sitting  in  the  library  one  morning,  looking 
up  at  him  rather  somberly.  Workmen  came  and 
went,  and  somewhere  in  the  back  regions  a  hammer 
kept  up  a  steady  tapping. 

"Mr.  Hayden,"  said  Hoichi,  as  he  ushered  that 
gentleman  into  the  room. 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him  for  a  full 
moment,  before  rising  to  greet  him:  one  of  Anne 
Champneys's  long,  still,  mysterious  looks,  that  made 
his  heart  feel  as  if  it  were  a  candle,  blown  and  shaken 
by  the  wind.  Then  she  smiled  and  held  out  her  hand. 
It  was  good  to  see  him  again !  She  was  prouder  of 
his  friendship  than  of  anything  that  had  yet  come  to 
her.  It  gave  her  a  sense  of  security,  raised  her  in  her 
own  estimation. 

She  explained,  eagerly,  the  changes  and  improve- 
ments she  was  planning,  and  he  went  over  the  house 
with  her.  He  liked  it  as  Marcia  liked  it;  once  or 


316  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

twice  he  offered  suggestions ;  the  relationship  of  pupil 
and  master  was  at  once  resumed, — but  this  time  the 
pupil  was  more  advanced. 

Then  he  took  her  out  to  lunch.  It  was  with  diffi- 
culty that  he  restrained  the  exuberant  delight  he  felt ; 
just  to  have  her  with  him  went  to  his  head.  "Mar- 
cia's  advice  was  wise,  but  my  behavior  's  going  to  be 
otherwise,  if  I  don't  keep  a  tight  hold  upon  my- 
self," he  told  himself. 

He  jealously  watched  her  social  progress,  and  he 
contributed  not  a  little  toward  it.  He  had  a  sense 
of  proprietorship  in  her,  and  he  did  not  mean  that 
she  should  be  just  one  among  many ;  he  wished  her  to 
be  a  great  luminary  around  which  lesser  lights  re- 
volved. Under  Marcia  Vandervelde's  wing,  then, 
Mrs.  Peter  Champneys  was  launched,  and  from  the 
very  first  she  was  a  success.  She  played  her  part 
beautifully,  though  she  was  curiously  apathetic  about 
her  triumphs.  The  incense  of  adulation  did  not  make 
as  sweet  an  odor  in  her  nostrils  as  one  might  have 
supposed.  Anne  Champneys  was  oddly  lacking  in 
personal  vanity,  and  she  retained  her  sense  of  values, 
she  was  able  to  see  things  in  their  just  proportions. 
That  she  had  created  a  sensation  did  n  't  turn  her  red 
head.  But  she  had  a  feeling  that  she  had,  in  a  sense, 
kept  her  word  to  Chadwick  Champneys,  discharged 
part  of  her  debt.  This  was  what  he  had  wished  her 
to  accomplish.  Very  well,  she  had  accomplished  it. 
She  was  glad.  But  she  sensed  a  certain  hollowness 
under  it  all.  Sometimes,  alone  in  her  room,  she  would 
stand  and  look  long  and  earnestly  at  the  red  Indian 


THE  GUTTER-CANDLE  317 

face  of  Fra  Girolamo  Savonarola,  brought  from  Flor- 
ence and  now  hanging  on  her  wall.  That  room  had 
changed.  It  was  plain  and  simple,  almost  austere; 
the  "honest  monk"  who  had  died  in  the  fire,  and  the 
wooden  crucifix  under  him,  seemed  to  dominate  it. 
That  treasure  of  a  maid  whom  Marcia  had  secured 
ior  her,  secretly  sniffed  at  Mrs.  Champneys 's  bed- 
chamber. She  couldn't  understand  it.  It  wasn't 
in  keeping  with  the  rest  of  the  house.  For,  it  was  a 
brilliant  house,  as  the  home  of  an  exceedingly  fashion- 
able, wealthy,  and  handsome  woman  should  be. 

Anne  bore  the  name  of  Champneys  like  a  conquer- 
ing banner.  What  had  happened  on  a  smaller  scale 
in  Florence,  happened  on  a  large  scale  here  at  home. 
Something  of  the  Champneys  story  had  crept  out, — 
the  early  marriage,  which  had  kept  all  the  wealth  in 
the  family;  the  departure  of  the  bridegroom  to  be- 
come an  artist,  and  the  fact  that  he  had  really  be- 
come a  noted  one.  The  halo  of  romance  encircled  her 
head.  She  was  considered  beautiful  and  clever,  and 
the  glamour  of  much  money  added  to  the  impression 
she  created;  but  she  was  also  considered  cold,  inac- 
cessible, and  perhaps,  as  the  Italian  had  said,  without 
a  heart.  She  became,  as  Marcia  had  laughingly  pre- 
dicted, a  legend  in  her  own  lifetime. 

Jason  Vandervelde  watched  her  speculatively.  He 
adored  Anne,  and  he  hoped  she  wasn't  going  to  be 
spoiled  by  all  the  pother  made  over  her.  And  he 
watched  with  a  growing  concern  Berkeley  Hayden's 
quiet,  persistent,  deliberate  pursuit  of  her.  Jason 
was  n't  under  any  illusions  about  the  Champneys  mar- 


318  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

riage,  but  he  had,  as  his  wife  said,  an  almost  super- 
stitious respect  for  Chadwiek  Champneys,  and  that 
marriage  had  been  the  old  man's  darling  plan.  It 
was  upon  that  he  had  builded,  and  Vandervelde  hated 
to  see  that  plan  brought  to  naught.  Anne  wouldn't 
really  lose,  of  course, — Hayden  could  give  her  as  much 
as  she  might  forego, — but  Vandervelde  somehow 
did  n  't  relish  the  idea.  That  girl  Gracie,  lingering 
on  in  the  hospital  ward,  had  brought  the  real  Peter 
Champneys  poignantly  close  to  his  trustee.  He 
couldn't  help  thinking  that  if  Anne  could  know  that 
real  Peter,  there  might  be  a  hope  that  old  Chadwiek 's 
judgment  would  be  once  more  vindicated.  At  the 
same  time,  he  cared  a  great  deal  for  Berkeley  Hay- 
den,  and  the  latter  wanted  Anne.  And  when  Hay- 
den  wanted  anything,  he  generally  got  it.  What 
Anne  herself  thought,  or  what  she  might  know,  he 
couldn't  determine.  And  Marcia,  when  he  ventured 
to  speak  to  her  about  the  matter,  said  cryptically : 

"Why  worry?  What  is  to  be,  will  be.  Kismet, 
Jason,  kismet!" 

On  a  certain  afternoon  the  house-physician  tele- 
phoned Mr.  Vandervelde  that  the  girl  Gracie  was  very 
low,  and  that  she  had  asked  for  him.  Vandervelde 
finished  the  letter  he  was  dictating  to  his  secretary, 
gave  a  few  further  instructions  to  that  faithful  ani- 
mal, and  had  himself  driven  to  the  hospital.  He 
could  n 't  explain  his  feelings  where  Gracie  was 
concerned.  There  was  something  to  blame,  some- 
where, for  these  Gracies.  It  made  him  feel  a  bit  re- 


THE  GUTTER-CANDLE  319 

morseful,  as  if  he  and  his  sort  had  left  something  un- 
done. 

The  house-physician  said  that  Gracie's  hold  upon 
life  was  a  mystery  and  a  miracle;  by  all  the  laws  she 
should  have  been  gone  some  months  since.  She  had 
certainly  taken  her  time  about  dying!  Her  little, 
sharp,  immature  face  had  lost  all  earthliness ;  only  the 
eyes  were  alive.  They  looked  at  Vandervelde  grate- 
fully. He  had  been  very  kind,  and  Gracie  was  try- 
ing to  thank  him. 

"Good-by,"  said  Gracie.  "You  been  white.  Tell 
him — I  couldn't  never  forget  him."  She  put  out  a 
claw  of  a  hand,  and  the  big  man  took  it. 

' '  Is  there — anything  else  I  can  do  for  you,  Gracie  ? 
Isn't  there  something  you  'd  like?"  The  business  of 
seeing  Gracie  go  wasn't  at  all  pleasant. 

Her  eyes  of  a  sudden  sparkled.     She  smiled. 

"There  's  one  thing  I  been  wanting  awful  bad. 
But  I  ain't  sure  I  ought  to  ask." 

"Tell  me,  my  child,  tell  me." 

"I  want  to  see  her,"  said  Gracie,  unexpectedly. 

"Her?" 

"His  wife.  I  got  no  right  to  ast,  but  I  want  some- 
thin'  awful  to  see  his  wife.  Just  once  before  I — I 
go,  I  want  to  see  her. ' ' 

Vandervelde  felt  bewildered.  He  had  never  spoken 
of  Gracie  to  Marcia,  or  to  Anne.  They  were  so  far 
removed  from  this  poor  little  derelict  that  he  was  not 
sure  they  would  understand.  He  said  after  a  mo- 
ment's painful  reflection: 

"My  poor  child,  I  will  see  what  I  can  do.     But  if 


320  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

I — that  is,  if  she — "  He  paused,  not  knowing  ex- 
actly how  to  put  his  dilemma  into  words  without 
wounding  her.  But  Gracie  understood. 

"You  mean  if  she  won't  come?  That  's  what  I 
want  to  know,"  said  she,  enigmatically.  So  weak  was 
she  that  with  the  words  on  her  lips  she  dropped  into 
sudden  slumber.  He  stood  looking  down  upon  her 
irresolutely.  Then  he  tiptoed  away,  meeting  at  the 
door  the  house-physician. 

"How  long?"  asked  the  lawyer,  jerkily. 

"Probably  until  morning.  Or  at  any  minute," 
said  the  doctor,  indifferently.  He  thought  it  the  best 
thing  Gracie  could  do. 

Vandervelde  nodded.  Then,  moved  by  one  of  those 
impulses  under  the  influence  of  which  the  most  con- 
servative and  careful  people  do  things  that  astonish 
nobody  more  than  themselves,  he  got  into  his  car  and 
went  after  Anne  Champneys. 


Anne  was  for  the  moment  alone.  The  spring  dusk 
had  just  fallen,  and  she  was  glad  to  sit  for  a  breath- 
ing-space in  the  shadowy  room.  Berkeley  Hayden 
had  just  left.  His  visit  had  been  momentous,  and  as 
a  result  she  was  shaken  to  the  depths.  She  had  come 
face  to  face  with  destiny,  and  she  was  called  upon  to 
make  a  decision. 

For  the  first  time  Hayden  had  broken  the  rigid 
rule  of  conduct  he  had  set  for  himself.  He  felt  that 
he  could  endure  no  more.  He  had  to  know.  They 
had  chatted  pleasantly,  idly.  But  of  a  sudden  Ber- 


THE  GUTTER-CANDLE  321 

keley  had  risen  from  his  chair,  gone  to  the  window, 
looked  out,  turned  and  faced  her. 

"Anne,"  said  he,  directly,  "what  are  you  going  to 
do  about  Peter  Champneys?" 

She  started  as  if  she  had  received  an  electric  shock. 
After  a  moment,  looking  at  him  with  a  confused  and 
startled  stare,  she  stammered : 

"W-why  do  you  ask?" 

"I  have  to  know,"  said  Hayden,  and  his  voice 
trembled.  "You  must  be  aware,  Anne,  that  I  love 
you.  I  have  loved  you  from  the  first  moment  of  our 
meeting.  You  are  the  only  woman  I  have  ever  really 
wished  to  marry.  That  is  why  I  must  ask  you: 
What  are  you  going  to  do  about  Peter  Champneys?" 

"I — I  don't  know,"  said  she,  twisting  her  fingers. 

"Do  you  fancy  you  might  be  able  to  love  him, — 
later  ? ' ' 

"No,"  said  she,  violently.    "No!" 

"Why,  then,  do  you  not  have  this  abominable  mar- 
riage annulled?"  he  demanded.  "I  know  nothing 
of  Champneys,  except  that  he  's  an  artist, — and,  truth 
forces  me  to  say,  a  great  one.  But  if  he  doesn't  love 
you,  if  you  do  not  love  him,  do  you  think  anything 
but  misery  is  ahead  for  you  both,  if  you  decide  to 
carry  out  the  terms  of  that  promise  extorted  from 
you  ? ' ' 

She  shrank  back  in  her  chair.  She  made  no  reply, 
and  Hayden  came  and  stood  directly  before  her,  look- 
ing down  at  her. 

"And  I — am  I  nothing  to  you  Anne?  I  love  you. 
What  of  me,  Anne?" 


322  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

"What  can  I  say?"  said  she,  falteringly.  "I  am 
not  free." 

"If  you  were  free,  would  you  marry  me ?  For  that 
is  what  I  am  asking  you  to  do, — free  yourself,  and 
marry  me." 

She  lifted  her  troubled  eyes.  "If  I  were  free," 
she  said,  "if  I  were  free — Berkeley,  give  me  time  to 
consider  this.  It  isn't  only  the  annulling  of  my 
marriage  to  a  man  I  had  never  seen  until  the  day  I 
married  him,  and  have  never  seen  since, — it's  the 
breaking  of  my  promise  to  Uncle  Chadwick — "  They 
were  in  the  library,  and  she  looked  up  at  the  portrait 
above  the  mantel.  Hayden's  glance  followed  hers. 

"He  had  no  right  to  extort  any  such  promise  from 
you!"  he  cried.  "Anne,  think  it  over!  Weigh  Pe- 
ter Champneys  and  me  in  the  balance.  And, — let 
the  best  man  win,  Anne.  Will  you?" 

She  regarded  him  steadfastly.     "Yes,"  she  said. 

"And  when  you  have  decided,  you  will  let  me 
know  ? ' ' 

' '  I  will  let  you  know, ' '  said  she,  smiling  faintly. 

Berkeley  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  He  looked 
deep  into  her  eyes.  Then  he  left  her.  He  had  been 
very  quiet,  but  his  passion  for  her  glowed  in  his  eyes, 
rang  in  his  voice,  and  was  in  the  lips  that  kissed  her 
palm. 

She  had  not  been  in  the  least  thrilled  by  it,  but  she 
was  not  displeased.  She  liked  him.  As  for  loving 
him,  she  didn't  think  it  was  really  in  her  to  love 
anybody.  Looking  back  upon  her  youthful  infatua- 
tion for  Glenn  Mitchell,  she  smiled  at  herself  twist- 


THE  GUTTER-CANDLE  323 

edly.  She  knew  now  that  she  had  been  in  love  with 
the  bright  shadow  of  love. 

But,  she  reflected,  if  she  did  not  love  Hayden,  she 
respected  him,  she  was  proud  of  him ;  he  represented 
all  that  was  best  and  most  desirable  in  her  present 
life.  Life  with  Berkeley  Hayden  would  n't  be  empty. 
And  life  as  she  faced  it  now  was  as  empty  as  a  shell 
that  has  lost  even  the  faintest  echo  of  the  sea.  Despite 
its  outward  glitter,  its  mother-of-pearl  sheen,  she  was 
beginning  to  be  more  and  more  aware  of  its  innate 
hollowness.  Her  young  and  healthy  nature  cried  out 
against  its  futility.  She  was  in  the  May  morning  of 
her  existence,  and  yet  the  joy  of  youth  eluded  her. 

She  had,  perhaps,  one  more  year  of  freedom. 
Then, — Peter  Champneys.  Berkeley  might  well  ask 
what  she  was  going  to  do  about  it !  Was  she  to  accept 
as  final  that  contract  which  would  make  her  the  un- 
loved wife  of  an  unloved  husband?  Now  that  she 
had  grown  somewhat  older  and  considerably  wiser, 
now  that  her  horizon  had  widened,  her  sense  of  values 
broadened,  she  perceived  that  she  owed  to  herself, 
to  her  sacredest  instincts,  the  highest  duty.  She  did 
not  like  to  break  her  pledged  word;  but  that  pledge 
wronged  Berkeley,  wronged  her,  wronged  Peter. 

Her  feeling  toward  that  unknown  husband  was  one 
of  stark  terror,  a  sick  dislike  that  had  grown  stronger 
with  the  years.  In  her  mind  he  remained  unchanged. 
She  saw  him  as  the  gawky,  shrinking  boy,  his  lips 
apart,  his  eyes  looking  at  her  with  uncontrollable  aver- 
sion. Oh,  no !  Life  with  Peter  Champneys  was  un- 
thinkable! There  remained,  then,  Berkeley  Hayden. 


324  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

It  wasn't  unpleasant  to  think  of  Berkeley  Hayden. 
It  made  one  feel  safe,  and  assured ;  there  was  a 
glamour  of  gratified  pride  about  it, — Nancy  Simms, — 
Mrs.  Peter  Champneys, — Mrs.  Berkeley  Hayden.  A 
little  smile  touched  her  lips. 

Into  these  not  unpleasant  musings  Mr.  Jason  Van- 
dervelde  irrupted  himself,  with  the  astounding  re- 
quest that  she  come  with  him  now,  immediately,  to  a 
hospital  where  a  girl  unknown  to  her  prayed  to  see 
her.  Hoichi  had  turned  the  lights  on  upon  Mr.  Van- 
dervelde's  entrance,  and  Anne  looked  at  her  visitor 
wonderingly. 

"I  do  sound  wild,"  admitted  Jason,  "but  if  you 
could  have  seen  the  poor  thing's  face  when  she  asked 
to  see  you — Anne,  she  '11  be  dead  before  morning." 
The  big  man's  glance  was  full  of  entreaty. 

"But  if  she  doesn't  know  me,  why  on  earth  should 
she  wish  to  see  me, — at  such  a  time?"  asked  Anne, 
still  more  astonished. 

Flounderingly  Vandervelde  tried  to  tell  her.  A 
questionable  girl,  to  whom  Peter  Champneys  had 
been  kind, — she  could  n  't  exactly  gather  how.  Dying 
in  a  hospital,  and  before  she  went  wishing  to  see 
Peter  Champneys 's  wife. 

Peter  Champneys 's  wife,  fortunately  for  herself, 
was  still  too  near  and  close  to  the  plain  people  to 
consider  such  a  request  an  outrageous  impertinence, 
to  be  refused  as  a  matter  of  course.  The  terrible 
power  of  money  had  not  come  to  her  soon  enough  to 
make  her  consider  herself  of  different  and  better  clay 
than  her  fellow  mortals.  She  was  n 't  haughty.  The 


THE  GUTTER-CANDLE  325 

heart  she  was  not  supposed  to  possess  stirred  uncom- 
fortably. She  looked  at  Vandervelde  questioningly. 

"You  wish  me  to  go?" 

"I  leave  that  to  you  entirely,"  said  he,  uncomfort- 
ably. "But,"  he  blurted,  "I  think  it  would  be 
mighty  decent  of  you." 

"I  will  go,"  she  said. 

When  they  reached  the  hospital,  the  blonde  person 
was  with  Gracie.  The  blonde  person  had  been  cry- 
ing, and  it  had  not  improved  her  appearance.  Her 
nose  looked  like  a  pink  wedge  driven  into  the  white 
triangle  of  her  face.  Screens  had  been  placed  around 
the  bed.  A  priest  with  a  rosy,  good-humored  face 
was  just  leaving. 

Gracie  turned  her  too-large  eyes  upon  Peter  Champ- 
neys's  wife  with  a  sort  of  unearthly  intensity,  and 
Anne  Champneys  looked  down  at  her  with  a  certain 
compassion.  Anne  had  a  bourgeois  sense  of  respec- 
tability, and  she  had  involuntarily  stiffened  at  sight 
of  the  blonde  drab  sitting  by-  the  bedside,  staring  at 
her  with  sodden  eyes.  She  hadn't  expected  the 
blonde.  She  ignored  her  and  looked,  instead,  at  Gra- 
cie. One  could  be  decently  sorry  for  Gracie. 

A  faint  frown  puckered  Gracie 's  brows.  Her  hand 
in  the  blonde  person's  tightened  its  grasp.  After  a 
moment  she  said  gravely: 

"You  came?" 

"Yes,"  said  Anne,  mechanically.  "I  came.  You 
wished  to  see  me?"  Pier  tone  was  inquiring. 

"I  wanted  to  see  if  you  was  good  enough — for  him," 
said  the  gutter-candle,  as  if  she  were  throwing  a  light 


326  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

into  the  secret  places  of  Anne  Champneys 's  soul. 
* '  You  ain  't.  But  you  could  be. ' ' 

Vandervelde  had  the  horrid  sensation  as  of  walk- 
ing in  a  nightmare.  He  wished  somebody  in  mercy 
would  wake  him  up. 

Anne's  brows  came  together.  She  bent  upon  Gracie 
one  of  her  long,  straight,  searching  looks. 

"Thank  you — for  comin',"  murmured  Gracie. 
"You  got  a  heart."  Her  eyelids  nickered. 

"I  am  glad  I  came,  if  it  pleases  you  to  see  me," 
said  Anne.  ' '  Is  that  all  you  wished  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

"I  wanted  to  see — if  you  was  good  enough  for 
him/'  murmured  Gracie  again.  "You  ain't.  But 
remember  what  I  'm  tellin'  you:  you  could  be." 
Her  eyes  closed.  She  fell  into  a  light  slumber,  hold- 
ing the  blonde  person's  hand.  Vandervelde  touched 
Anne  on  the  arm,  and  they  went  out. 

As  they  drove  home  Vandervelde  told  her,  as  well 
as  he  could,  all  that  the  little  wrecked  vessel  which 
was  now  nearing  its  last  harbor  had  told  him.  He 
was  deeply  moved.  He  said,  patting  her  hand. 

"It  was  decent  of  you  to  come.  You  're  a  little 
sport,  Anne." 

For  a  while  she  was  silent.  Peter  Champneys,  then, 
was  capable  of  kindness.  He  could  do  a  gentle  and 
generous  deed.  And  perhaps  he  also  was  finding  the 
heavy  chain  of  his  promise  to  his  uncle,  of  his  mar- 
riage to  herself,  galling  and  wearisome.  She  reached 
a  woman's  swift  decision. 

"I  'm  going  to  be  a  better  sport,"  said  she. 
"I  'm  going  to  reward  Peter  Champneys  by  setting 
him  free.  I  shall  have  our  marriage  annulled." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

KISMET  ! 

PETER  CHAMPNEYS  was  packing  up  for  a 
summer's  work  on  the  coast  when  he  received 
Vandervelde 's  letter,  advising  him  that  Mrs. 
Champneys  had  instituted  proceedings  to  have  her 
marriage  annulled.  The  attorney  added  that  by  this 
action  on  Anne's  part  the  entire  Champneys  estate 
reverted  to  him,  Peter  Champneys,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  fifty  thousand  dollars  especially  allotted 
to  Anne  by  Chadwick  Champneys 's  will.  Vander- 
velde took  it  for  granted  there  would  be  no  opposi- 
tion from  Peter.  He  hoped  his  client  would  find  it 
possible  to  visit  America  shortly,  there  being  cer- 
tain details  he  should  see  to  in  person. 

Opposition?  Peter's  sensation  was  one  of  over- 
whelming relief.  This  was  lifting  from  his  spirit  the 
weight  of  an  intolerable  burden:  he  felt  profoundly 
grateful  to  that  red-haired  woman  who  had  had  the 
courage  to  take  her  fate  in  her  own  hands,  forego 
great  wealth,  and  sever  a  bond  that  threatened  to  be- 
come an  iron  yoke.  He  could  n  't  but  respect  her  for 
that;  he  determined  that  she  shouldn't  be  too  great 
a  loser.  He  thought  she  should  have  half  the  estate, 
at  the  very  least. 

327 


328  THE  PUKPLE  HEIGHTS 

He  had  never  had  the  commercial  mind.  He  had 
never  asked  that  the  allowance  settled  upon  him  by 
his  uncle  should  be  increased.  As  his  own  earnings 
far  outstripped  his  modest  needs,  that  allowance  had 
been  used  to  allay  those  desperate  cases  of  want  al- 
ways confronting  the  kindly  in  a  great  city.  The 
Champneys  estate  back  there  in  America  had  bulked 
rather  negligently  in  his  mind,  obscured  and  darkened 
by  the  formidable  figure  of  the  wife  who  went  with 
it.  She  had  loomed  so  hugely  in  the  foreground  that 
other  considerations  had  been  eclipsed.  And  now  this 
ogress,  moved  thereto  God  knew  why,  had  of  a  sud- 
den opened  her  hand  and  set  him  free! 

That  strenuous  and  struggling  childhood  of  his, 
whose  inner  life  and  aspirations  had  been  so  secret 
and  so  isolated,  had  taken  the  edge  off  his  gregarious- 
ness.  He  did  not  continuously  feel  the  herd-necessity 
to  rub  shoulders  with  others.  The  creative  mind  is 
essentially  isolated.  Peter  loved  his  fellows  with  a 
quiet,  tolerant  affection,  but  he  remained  as  it  were 
to  himself,  standing  a  little  apart.  His  heart  was  like 
a  deep,  still,  hidden  pool,  in  which  a  few  stars  only 
have  room  to  shine. 

A  successful  man,  he  had  been  romantically  adored 
by  many  idle  women  and  angled  for  by  many  an  in- 
terested one.  At  times  he  had  lightly  lent  himself 
to  those  amiable  French  arrangements  of  good  com- 
radeship which  end  naturally  and  without  bitterness, 
leaving  both  parties  with  a  satisfied  sense  of  having 
received  very  good  measure.  He  had  never  been  able 
to  deceive  himself  that  he  loved.  He  had  loved  Den- 


KISMET !  329 

iae,  but  there  had  been  in  his  affection  for  her  more 
of  compassion  than  passion,  as  Denise  herself  had 
known.  She  remained  in  his  memory  like  a  perfume. 
That  had  been  his  one  serious  liaison.  But  the  woman 
he  could  really  love  with  his  fullest  powers,  and  to 
whom  he  could  give  his  best,  had  not  yet  appeared. 

Mrs.  Hemingway  had  been  troubled  by  his  celibacy. 
She  had  persisted  in  her  desire  to  have  him  marry 
young,  his  wife  being  some  one  of  her  girl  friends. 
She  wished  to  see  Peter  set  up  an  establishment,  which 
would  presently  center  around  a  nursery  full  of  ador- 
able babies  who  would  bring  with  them  that  tender 
and  innocent  happiness  young  children  alone  are  able 
to  confer.  To  dispel  these  pleasant  day-dreams  of 
hers,  Peter  had  found  it  necessary  to  tell  her  of  his 
American  marriage. 

Mrs.  Hemingway  was  astonished,  a  little  chagrined, 
but  not  hopeless.  He  should  bring  his  young  wife 
to  Paris.  To  make  her  understand  that  marriage  as 
it  really  was,  to  explain  his  own  attitude  toward  it, 
Peter  made  a  swift  and  frightfully  accurate  little 
sketch  of  Nancy  Simms  as  she  had  appeared  to  him 
that  memorable  morning. 

His  friend  was  appalled.  It  took  Peter  some 
time  to  explain  his  uncle  to  Mrs.  Hemingway.  At  the 
best,  she  thought,  he  had  been  insane.  Not  even  the 
fact  that  Peter  was  co-heir  to  the  Champneys  for- 
tune consoled  her  for  what  she  considered  a  block  to 
his  happiness,  a  blight  upon  his  life.  The  more  she 
thought  about  that  marriage,  the  more  she  disliked  it ; 
and  as  the  time  approached  for  Peter  literally  to  sac- 


330  THE  PUEPLE  HEIGHTS 

rifice  himself  upon  the  altar,  Mrs.  Hemingway  grew 
more  and  more  perturbed,  though  she  wasn't  so 
troubled  about  it  as  Emma  Campbell  was.  Emma's 
terror  of  "dat  gal"  had  grown  with  the  years. 
Neither  of  them  ventured  to  question  Peter,  but 
Emma  Campbell  began  to  have  frequent  spells  of 
"wrastlin'  wid  de  sperit,"  and  her  long,  lugubrious 
"speretuals"  were  dismal  enough  to  set  one's  teeth 
on  edge.  She  would  howl  piercingly : 

"Befo'   dis   time  anothuh   yeah, 
I  ma-ay  be  gone, 

Een  some  ole  lone-some  grayeyahd, 
O  Lawd,  ho-ow  long?" 

She  had  left  the  high  Montmartre  cottage  and  had 
come  down  to  keep  house  for  Peter,  his  being  a  very 
simple  menage.  Oddly,  the  denizens  of  the  Quartier 
did  n  't  faze  her  in  the  least.  She  chuckled  over  them, 
an  old  negro  woman's  sinful  chuckle.  She  made  no 
slightest  attempt  to  conquer  the  French  language, 
which  she  didn't  in  the  least  admire.  She  learned 
the  equivalents  for  a  few  phrases  of  her  own, — "I 
hongry,"  " How  much?"  "Gimme  dat,"  and  "Mistuh 
Peter  gone  out,"  and  on  this  slight  foundation  she 
managed  to  keep  a  fairly  firm  footing.  The  fre- 
quenters of  Peter's  studio  were  delighted  with  Emma 
Campbell;  they  recognized  her  artistic  availability, 
and  she  and  her  black  cat  were  borrowed  liberally. 

As  a  rule,  she  was  willing  to  lend  herself  to  art, 
and  was  a  patient  model,  nnt.il  one  rash  young  man 
took  it  into  his  head,  that  he  must  have  Emma  Camp- 


KISMET!  331 

bell  as  a  favorite  old  attendant  upon  the  Queen  of 
Sheba  he  proposed  to  paint.  He  was  a  very  earnest 
young  German,  that  painter,  speaking  fairly  good 
English.  Emma  had  liked  him  more  than  most ;  but 
her  faith  received  a  blow  from  which  it  never  recov- 
ered. That  young  man  wished  to  paint  her  au 
naturel — her,  Emma  Campbell,  who  had  been  a  mem- 
ber in  good  standing  of  the  Young  Sons  and  Daughters 
of  Zion,  the  Children  of  Mary  Magdalen,  and  the 
Burying  Society  of  the  Sons  and  Daughters  of  the 
Kising  Star  in  the  Bonds  of  Love!  In  the  alto- 
gether! Emma  Campbell  gasped  like  a  hooked  fish. 
She  made  a  nozzle  of  her  mouth  and  protruded  her 
eyes.  She  said  ominously: 

"I  bawn  nekked,  but  I  ain't  had  nuttin'  to  do  wid 
dat.  Dat  de  fust  en  de  last  time  I  show  up  wid  mah 
rind  out  o'  doors.  I  been  livin'  in  clo'es  evuh  sence, 
en  I  'speck  to  die  in  clo  'es. ' ' 

The  artist,  who  wanted  Emma  in  his  picture,  tried 
to  make  her  understand.  He  reasoned  with  her  man- 
fully: 

"Ach,  silly  nigger-woman!  Clothes,  clothes! 
What  are  clothes!  See,  now:  you  are  the  Queen  of 
Sheba's  old  slave.  Your  large  black  feet  and  legs 
are  bare,  a  glittering  amulet  swings  between  your 
withered  breasts  of  an  old  African,  you  wear  heavy 
bracelets  and  anklets,  around  your  lean  flanks  is  a 
little,  thin  striped  apron,  and  you  hold  in  your  hand 
the  great  fan  of  peacock  feathers !  Magnificent ! 
You  are  the  queen's  old  slave,  imbecile!" 

"Is  I?    Boy,  is  you  evuh  hear  tell  o'  Mistuh  Abe 


332  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

Linkum?  Aftuh  Gin'ral  Sherman  bun  down  de  big 
house  smack  en  smoove,  en  tote  off  all  de  cow  en  mule 
en  hawg  en  t'ing,  en  dem  Yankees  tief  all  de  fowl, 
en  we-all  run  lak  rabbit,  Mistuh  Linkum  done  sen' 
word  we  's  free.  En  jus'  lak  Mistuh  Linkum  say, 
hit  's  so:  aftuh  us  git  shet  o'  Gin'ral  Sherman,  we  's 
free.  All  dat  time  I  been  a-wearin'  clo'es,  en  now 
you  come  en  tarrygate  me,  sayin'  I  got  to  stan'  up  in 
de  nekked  rind  en  wave  fedders  'cause  I  in  slavery- 
ment?  You  bes'  ain't  let  Mistuh  Peter  Champneys 
hear  you  talkin'  lak  dat ! " 

The  bewildered  and  baffled  young  man  raved  in 
three  languages,  but  Emma  Campbell  flatly  refused 
either  to  be  in  "slaveryment"  or  in  the  "  nekked 
rind."  Visions  of  herself  being  caught  and  painted 
bare-legged,  with  a  trifling  little  dab  of  an  apron  tied 
around  her  waist  even  as  one  ties  a  bit  of  ribbon 
around  the  cat's  neck,  and  of  this  scandal  being  fer- 
reted out  by  the  deacons,  sisters,  and  brethren,  of  the 
Mount  Zion  Baptist  Church  in  Eiverton,  South  Caro- 
lina, haunted  her  and  made  her  projeck  darkly. 
"When  she  ventured  to  voice  her  opinion  to  Mist' 
Peter,  he  clapped  her  on  the  back  and  grinned. 
Emma  Campbell  began  to  look  with  a  jaundiced  eye 
upon  art  and  the  votaries  of  art. 

She  was  relieved  when  Peter  decided  to  spend  the 
summer  on  the  coast;  she  was  a  coast  woman  herself, 
and  she  longed  for  the  smell  of  the  sea.  And  then, 
to  add  to  her  joy,  had  come  this  last,  astonishing 
news:  ''dat  gal"  was  going  to  divorce  Mist'  Peter! 
That  incomprehensible  marriage  would  be  done  away 


KISMET!  333 

with,  that  grim,  red-headed  dragoness  would  go  out 
of  their  lives!  Emma's  speretuals  took  a  more 
hopeful  trend;  and  Peter  whistled  while  he  worked. 

He  had  written  Vandervelde  that  he  could  n't  forego 
his  summer's  work,  but  would  probably  be  in  New 
York  that  autumn.  In  the  meantime,  let  Vander- 
velde look  after  his  interests  as  usual  and  see  to  it 
that  Mrs.  Champneys  was  more  adequately  and  liber- 
ally provided  for.  He  forgot  to  inquire  as  to  the  real 
value  of  his  possessions.  He  did  say  to  himself 
soberly : 

"Jingo!  This  thing  sounds  like  money — as  if  I 
were  a  mighty  rich  man !  I  '11  have  to  do  something 
about  this ! ' ' 

But  he  wasn't  overly  upset,  or  even  very  greatly 
interested.  His  real  concern  had  never  been  money; 
it  had  been,  like  Rousseau's  and  Millet's,  to  make  the 
manifestation  of  life  his  first  thought,  to  make  a  man 
really  breathe,  a  tree  really  vegitate. 

And  so  he  went  to  the  coast,  as  happy  as  a  school- 
boy on  a  holiday.  The  sea  fascinated  him,  and  the 
faces  of  the  men  who  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships. 
It  was  going  to  be  the  happiest  and  most  fruitful  sum- 
mer he  had  known  for  years.  He  bade  the  Heming- 
ways a  gay  farewell.  Mrs.  Hemingway,  he  noted, 
looked  at  him  speculatively.  Her  matrimonial  plans 
for  him  had  revived. 

He  worked  gloriously.  He  ate  like  a  school-boy, 
and  slept  like  one,  dreamlessly.  What  was  happening 
in  the  outside  world  did  n't  interest  him ;  what  he  had 
to  do  was  to  catch  a  little  of  the  immortal  and  yet 


334  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

shifting  loveliness  of  the  world  and  imprison  it  on 
a  piece  of  canvas.  He  didn't  get  any  of  the  news- 
papers. When  he  smoked  at  night  with  his  friend  the 
cure,  a  gentle,  philosophic  old  priest  who  had  known 
a  generation  of  painter-folk  and  loved  this  painter 
with  a  fatherly  affection,  he  heard  passing  bits  of 
world  gossip.  The  priest  took  several  papers,  and 
liked  to  talk  over  with  his  artist  friend  what  he  had 
read.  It  was  the  priest,  pale  and  perturbed,  who  told 
him  that  war  was  upon  the  world.  Peter  didn't  be- 
lieve it.  In  his  heart  he  thought  that  the  fear  of  war 
with  her  great  neighbor  had  become  a  monomania 
with  the  French. 

"It  will  be  a  bad  war,  the  worst  war  the  world  has 
ever  known.  We  shall  suffer  frightfully:  but  in  the 
end  we  shall  win,"  said  the  cure,  walking  up  and 
down  before  his  cottage.  He  fingered  his  beads  as 
he  spoke. 

France  began  to  mobilize.  And  then  Peter  Champ- 
neys  realized  that  the  French  fear  hadn't  been  so 
much  a  monomania  as  a  foreknowledge.  The  thing 
stunned  him.  He  wished  to  protest,  to  cry  out  against 
the  monstrousness  of  what  was  happening.  But  his 
voice  was  a  reed  in  a  hurricane;  he  was  a  straw  in 
a  gigantic  whirlpool.  He  felt  his  helplessness  acutely. 

He  could  n  't  work  any  more ;  he  could  n  't  sleep ;  he 
couldn't  eat.  There  is  a  France  that  artists  love 
more  than  they  may  ever  love  any  woman.  Peter 
Champneys  knew  that  France.  Nobody  hated  and 
loathed  war  more  than  he,  born  and  raised  in  a  land, 


KISMET !  335 

and  among  a  people,  stripped  and  darkened  by  it. 
And  that  had  been  but  a  drop  in  the  bucket,  compared 
with  what  was  now  threatening  France.  He  could  n't 
idly  stand  by  and  see  that  happen !  He  thought  of  all 
that  France  had  given  him,  all  that  France  meant  to 
Mm.  The  faces  of  all  those  comrades  of  the  Quartier 
rose  before  him;  and  gently,  wistfully  appealing,  the 
sweet  face  of  little  lost  Denise.  He  packed  his  paint- 
ings finished  and  unfinished,  and  went  to  tell  his 
friend  the  cure  farewell,  bending  his  pagan  knees  to 
receive  the  old  man's  blessing.  The  cure,  too,  was 
part  of  that  which  is  the  spirit  of  France. 

They  were  enlisting  in  the  Quartier.  Peter  was 
one  of  very  many.  When  the  preliminaries  were 
passed  and  he  had  put  on  the  uniform  of  a  private 
soldier  of  the  republic,  he  felt  rather  a  fool.  He 
wasn't  in  the  least  enthusiastic.  There  was  a  thing 
to  be  done,  and  he  meant  to  help  in  its  accomplish- 
ment; but  he  wasn't  going  to  shout  over  it  or  pre- 
tend that  he  liked  doing  it. 

"When  he  went  to  tell  Mrs.  Hemingway  good-by, 
just  before  his  regiment  left,  she  put  her  arms  around 
him  and  kissed  him.  She  was  going  to  stay  in  Paris, 
and  Emma  Campbell  would  stay  in  her  house.  Emma 
Campbell  had  been  very  silent.  She  had  acute  and 
very  unpleasant  recollections  of  one  war.  She  did  n  't 
understand  what  this  one  was  about,  but  she  didn't 
like  it.  And  when  she  saw  Peter  in  uniform,  saying 
good-by,  going  away  to  get  himself  killed,  maybe, 
she  broke  into  a  whimper : 


336  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

"Oh,  Miss  Maria!  Oh,  Miss  Maria!  Look  at  wc- 
all  chile !  Oh,  my  Gawd,  Miss  Maria,  we-all  's  chile  's 
gwine  to  de  war!" 

Peter  put  his  arm  around  her  shoulder.  His  face 
twitched.  Emma  said  in  a  low  voice:  "I  help  Miss 
Maria  wean  'iin,  en  he  bit  me  on  de  knuckles  wid  'is 
fust  toofs.  Nevuh  had  no  trouble  wid  'im,  'cept  to 
dust  'is  britches  wunst  in  a  w'ile.  Ah,  Lawd!  I 
sho  did  love  dat  chile!  Use  to  rake  chips  for  de 
wash-pot  fire,  en  sit  roun'  en  wait  for  ole  Emma  Camp- 
bell to  fix  'is  sweet  'taters  for  'im.  Me  en  Miss 
Maria's  chile.  En  now  he  soldier  en  gwine  to  de 
war!  Me  en  'im  far  fum  home,  en  he  gwine  to  de 
war!"  She  threw  her  white  apron  over  her  head. 
Emma  hated  to  have  anybody  see  her  cry. 

So  Peter  Champneys  went  to  the  war,  along  with 
the  other  artists  of  France,  and  was  made  use  of  in 
many  curious  ways.  Presently  he  was  taken  out  of 
his  squad,  and  set  at  other  work  where  the  quick  and 
sure  eye,  and  deft,  trained  hand,  of  the  painter  were 
needed. 

He  saw  unbelievable,  unimaginable  things,  things 
so  unspeakable  that  his  soul  seemed  to  die  within  him. 
The  word  glory  made  him  shudder.  There  was  a  duty 
to  do,  and  he  did  it  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  without 
noise,  without  fear.  Wherever  he  looked  around  him, 
other  men  were  doing  the  same  thing.  Every  now 
and  then,  after  some  particularly  nightmarish  ex- 
periences, he  would  be  called  out — he  himself  ques- 
tioned why — and  kissed  on  both  cheeks,  and  a  medal 
or  so  would  be  pinned  upon  him.  He  accepted  it 


KISMET !  337 

all  politicly,  apathetically;  it  was  all  a  part  of  the 
game.  And  the  game  itself  seemed  never-ending. 
It  went  on  and  on,  and  on. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  wasn't  Peter  Champneys 
the  artist  any  more,  the  lover  of  beauty,  the  man  who 
was  to  rebuild  the  house  of  his  forebears,  and  for 
whom  a  great  fortune  was  waiting  over  there  in 
America.  He  was  just  a  soul  in  torment,  living  his 
bit  of  hell,  hating  it  with  a  cold  impatience,  an  in- 
curable anger.  One  thing  only  kept  him  from  losing 
all  hope  for  mankind :  at  times  he  had  piercing,  blind- 
ing glimpses  of  the  soul  of  plain  men  laid  bare.  With 
torment,  a  humanity  larger  even  than  his  art  was 
born  in  him. 

At  the  end  of  the  third  year  a  sniper  got  him.  He 
was  wounded  so  badly  that  at  first  it  was  thought  a 
leg  would  have  to  be  amputated.  But  even  in  that 
hideous  welter  of  the  nations,  Peter  Champneys 
wasn't  unknown.  Overburdened  and  busy  as  they 
were,  doctors  and  nurses  fought  for  the  life  of  the 
American  artist.  He  came  to  to  hear  a  poilu  in  his 
ward  praising  the  saints  that  it  was  his  hand  and  not 
the  painter's  that  had  gone,  and  another  say  philo- 
sophically that  if  one  of  two  had  to  be  blinded,  he  was 
glad  M.  Champneys 's  eyes  had  been  saved. 

''You  will  see  for  us,  Monsieur,"  said  he  cheerfully. 
And  in  his  heart  Peter  swore  to  himself  that  he  would. 
He  would  see  for  the  plain  people,  the  common  peo- 
ple of  God. 

As  soon  as  he  was  able  to  be  moved,  the  Heming- 
ways and  Emma  Campbell  came  and  took  him  home. 


338  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

Now,  a  spirit  like  his  cannot  see  and  hear  and  know 
such  things  as  Peter  had  been  experiencing  for  three 
years,  without  showing  signs  of  the  conflict.  Peter 
had  changed  physically  as  well  as  spiritually.  His 
face  had  paled  to  an  ivory  tone,  the  features  had  a 
cameo  sharpness  and  purity  of  outline;  cheeks  and 
chin  were  covered  with  a  heavy,  jet-black  beard, — as 
if  his  countenance  were  in  morning  for  its  lost  boyish- 
ness. And  out  of  this  thin,  quiet,  black-haired,  black- 
bearded  face  looked  a  pair  of  golden  eyes  of  an  al- 
most intolerable  clarity.  Don  Pedro  Mrs.  Heming- 
way called  him  laughingly,  and  El  Conquistador. 
Secretly,  she  was  immensely  proud  of  him. 

Peter  didn't  recuperate  as  quickly  and  completely 
as  had  been  hoped.  He  was  weary  with  an  almost 
hopeless  weariness,  and  Mrs.  Hemingway,  who 
watched  him  with  the  affection  of  an  older  sister, 
was  worried  about  his  condition.  She  did  n  't  like 
his  apathy.  He  was  as  gentle,  as  considerate,  and 
even  more  exquisitely  sympathetic  than  of  old.  But 
in  all  things  that  concerned  himself,  he  was  quietly 
disinterested.  She  and  Hemingway  had  several  long 
talks.  Then  Hemingway  began  to  get  busy.  Pres- 
ently he  suggested,  that  it  might  be  a  very  good 
idea  if  Peter  should  go  over  to  America  for  a  while, 
and  look  after  those  interests  to  which  he  hadn't 
given  a  thought  since  he  had  put  on  a  uniform. 
After  all,  Hemingway  reminded  him,  his  uncle  had 
placed  considerable  trust  in  him.  It  was  only  fair 
now  that  Chadwick  Champneys's  wishes  should  come 
in  for  at  least  a  little  attention,  was  n 't  it  ? 


KISMET!  339 

Peter  pondered  this  idea,  and  found  it  just.  Be- 
sides, he  wasn't  unwilling  to  go  back  to  America 
now  that  he  didn't  have  to  face  that  girl.  He 
wondered,  vaguely,  what  had  become  of  her.  Had 
she  found  happiness  for  herself  ?  He  hoped  so.  Yes, 
he  'd  rather  like  to  see  New  York  again.  He  could  n't 
be  of  any  further  use  here  now,  and  he  couldn't  do 
his  own  work,  for  all  inspiration  seemed  to  have  left 
him.  He  felt  empty,  arid,  useless. 

He  might  just  as  well  act  upon  Hemingway's  sug- 
gestion, and  find  out  how  things  were  over  there. 
And  after  he  'd  seen  Vandervelde,  he  'd  go  down 
south  and  visit  that  tiny  brown  house  on  the  cove, 
and  the  River  Swamp,  and  Neptune's  old  cabin,  and 
the  cemetery  alongside  the  Riverton  Road.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  smelled  the  warm,  salt-water  odors  of 
the  coast  country  again,  saw  the  gray  moss  swaying 
in  the  river  breeze,  heard  a  mocking-bird  break  into 
sudden  song.  A  homesick  longing  for  Carolina  came 
upon  him.  Oh,  for  the  flat  coast  country,  the  marsh 
between  blue  water  and  blue  sky,  the  swamp  bays  in 
flower,  a  Red  Admiral  fluttering  above  a  thistle  in  a 
corner  of  an  old  worm-fence ! 

Emma  Campbell  discovered  this  homesick  longing 
in  herself,  too.  Emma  was  hideously  afraid  of  the 
passage  across,  but  she  was  willing  to  risk  it,  just  to 
get  "over  home"  once  more.  She  thought  of  herself 
sitting  in  her  place  in  Mount  Zion  Church,  with  ole 
Br'er  Shadrach  Timmons  liftin'  up  de  tune,  fat 
Sist'  Mindy  Sawyer  fanning  herself  with  a  palm-leaf 
fan  and  swaying  back  and  forth  in  time  to  the  speret- 


340  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

ual,  and  busybody  Deacon  Williams  rolling  his 
eye  to  see  that  nobody  took  too  long  a  swallow  out  of 
the  communion  cup  he  passed  around.  She  thought 
of  possum  parties,  with  accompaniments  of  sweet 
'taters  and  possum  gravy.  Her  lip  trembled,  tears 
rolled  down  her  black  cheeks.  She  had  been  living 
in  the  midst  of  air  raids,  her  ears  had  been  stunned 
with  the  roar  of  Big  Bertha.  Now  she  nevuh 
wanted  to  hear  nuttin'  louder  dan  bull-frawg  in  de 
river  so  long  as  she  lived.  She  was  sorry  to  leave 
Mrs.  Hemingway,  for  whom  she  had  acquired  a  great 
affection.  And  she  had  one  real  grief:  Satan  had 
gone  to  the  heaven  of  black  cats,  so  she  could  n  't  take 
him  back  to  Carolina.  She  wouldn't  replace  the 
dear,  funny,  cuddly  beastie  with  a  French  cat. 
French  cats  were  amiable  animals,  very  nice  in  their 
way,  but  they  weren't,  they  couldn't  be,  "we-all's 
folks"  as  the  Carolina  cat  had  been. 

Hemingway  arranged  everything.  And  so  one 
morning,  Peter  Champneys  walking  with  a  stick, 
and  old  Emma  Campbell,  stiffly  erect  and  rustling  in 
a  black  silk  frock  that  Mrs.  Hemingway  had  bought 
for  her,  turned  their  faces  to  America  once  more. 

Vandervelde,  who  met  them  in  response  to  Heming- 
way 's  cable,  knew  Emma  Campbell  at  sight,  but  failed 
to  recognize  in  the  tall,  distinguished,  very  foreign- 
looking  gentleman,  the  gangling  Peter  Champneys 
he  had  seen  married  to  Nancy  Simms.  He  kept 
staring  at  Peter,  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth  curled 
more  than  usual.  And  he  liked  him,  with  the  instan- 
taneous liking  of  one  large-natured  man  for  another. 


KISMET !  341 

Vandervelde  had  never  approved  of  the  annulment  of 
the  Champneys  marriage,  although  Marcia  did.  Not 
even  the  fact  that  Anne  was  going  to  marry  Berkeley 
Hayden,  had  been  able  to  convince  Vandervelde  that 
the  bringing  to  naught  of  Chadwick  Champneys 's 
plans  could  be  right.  And  looking  at  Peter  Champ- 
neys now,  he  was  more  than  ever  convinced  that  a 
mistake  had  been  made.  That  little  gutter-girl, 
Gracie,  had  been  right  about  Peter  Champneys;  and 
Anne  had  been  wrong. 

Vandervelde  asked,  presently,  if  Peter  wished  to 
see  the  reporters.  Once  they  scented  him,  they  would 
be  clamoring  at  his  heels.  And  then  Peter  learned 
to  his  surprise  and  annoyance  that  he  was  something 
of  a  hero  and  very  much  of  a  celebrity.  His  expres- 
sion made  Vandervelde  chuckle.  But,  the  attorney 
demanded,  could  a  famous  artist,  a  man  who  for  dis- 
tinguished and  unusual  service  had  been  decorated 
by  two  governments,  the  heir  to  the  Champneys 
millions,  and  one  of  the  figures  of  a  social  romance, 
hope  to  hide  his  light  under  a  bushel  basket?  Noth- 
ing doing!  He  was  a  figure  of  international  impor- 
tance, a  lion  whom  the  public  wanted  to  hear  roar. 

Peter  shuddered.  The  thought  of  being  inter- 
viewed by  one  of  those  New  York  super-reporters 
made  him  feel  limp.  Couldn't  they  understand  he 
didn't  want  to  talk?  Didn't  they  understand  that 
those  who  had  really  seen,  those  who  knew,  weren't 
doing  any  talking?  Why, — they  couldn't!  As  for 
himself,  his  nerves  were  rasped  raw.  Luckily,  Van- 
dervelde understood. 


342  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

He  asked  Vandervelde  a  few  perfunctory  questions, 
and  learned  that  things  were  very  much  all  right.  He 
signed  certain  papers  presented  to  him.  Then  he 
asked  abruptly  if  Mrs.  Champneys  had  been  as  liber- 
ally provided  for  as  she  should  have  been,  and  learned 
that  Mrs.  Champneys  had  flatly  refused  to  accept  a 
penny  more  than  the  actual  amount  given  her  by 
Chadwick  Champneys 's  will.  Vandervelde  added, 
after  a  moment,  that  he  thought  Mrs.  Champneys 
intended  to  remarry.  At  that  Peter  looked  somewhat 
surprised.  He  thought  him  a  bold  man  who  of  his 
own  free  will  ordained  to  marry  Nancy  Simms  Champ- 
neys! He  murmured,  politely,  that  he  hoped  she 
would  be  happy,  but  failed  to  ask  the  name  of 
his  successor.  What  was  Hecuba  to  him  or  he  to  He- 
cuba? 

He  was  in  Vandervelde 's  office,  then,  and  the  tele- 
phone began  to  ring.  Three  several  times  Vander- 
velde answered  the  questions  where,  when,  how  might 
the  reporter  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire  get  in  touch 
with  Mr.  Peter  Champneys.  Had  he  really  returned 
to  New  York?  Been  decorated  several  times,  hadn't 
he?  What  was  his  latest  picture?  What  were  his 
present  and  future  plans?  Could  Mr.  Vandervelde 
give  any  information  ?  In  each  case  Mr.  Vandervelde 
said  he  could  n  't.  He  hung  up  the  receiver  and  looked 
at  the  celebrity,  who  seemed  gloomy. 

The  lawyer  was  a  tower  of  strength.  He  started 
Emma  Campbell,  who  didn't  want  to  linger  in  New 
York,  on  her  way  to  Riverton.  Emma  wanted  to  get 
home  as  fast  as  the  fastest  train  could  carry  her. 


KISMET !  343 

But  Peter  didn't  want  to  go  back  to  Riverton — yet. 
And  then  Vandervelde  made  a  suggestion  which 
rather  pleased  Peter.  Why  not  go  to  a  little  place 
he  knew,  a  quiet  and  very  beautiful  place  on  the 
Maine  coast  ?  Very  few  people  knew  of  its  existence. 
Vandervelde  had  stumbled  upon  it  on  a  motor  trip  a 
few  years  before,  and  he  was  rather  jealous  of  his 
discovery.  The  people  were  sturdy,  independent 
Maine  folk,  the  climate  and  scenery  unsurpassed; 
Peter  would  be  well  looked  after  by  the  old  lady  to 
whom  Vandervelde  would  recommend  him.  And  to 
make  perfectly  sure  that  he  'd  be  undisturb.ed,  to 
drop  more  completely  out  of  the  world  and  find  the 
rest  he  needed,  why  not  call  himself,  say,  Mr.  Jones, 
or  Mr.  Smith,  letting  Peter  Champneys  the  artist 
hide  for  a  while  behind  that  homely  disguise?  Van- 
dervelde almost  stammered  in  his  eagerness.  His 
eyes  shone,  his  face  flushed.  He  leaned  across  his 
desk,  watching  Peter  with  a  curious  intensity. 

Peter  liked  the  idea  of  the  Maine  coast.  Sea  and 
forest,  open  spaces,  quietude;  plain  folk  going  about 
their  own  business,  letting  him  go  about  his.  Long 
days  to  loaf  through,  in  which  to  reorganize  his  ex- 
istence in  accordance  with  his  newer  values.  Isola- 
tion was  the  balm  his  spirit  craved.  Let  him  have 
that,  let  it  help  him  to  become  his  own  man  again, 
and  he  'd  be  ready  to  face  life  and  work  like  a  giant 
refreshed. 

"You  '11  go?"  Vandervelde 's  voice  was  studiously 
restrained ;  he  had  lowered  his  lids  to  hide  the  eager- 
ness of  his  eyes. 


344  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

"I  think  such  a  place  as  you  describe  is  exactly 
what  I  need, ' '  said  Peter. 

"I  'm  quite  sure  it  is.  And  the  sooner  you  go,  the 
better." 

Peter  got  up  and  walked  around  the  office.  A 
typewriter  was  clacking  monotonously,  the  telephone 
bell  was  constantly  ringing.  Peter  turned  his  head 
restlessly. 

Vandervelde  had  made  his  suggestion  at  precisely 
the  right  moment.  Peter  felt  grateful  to  him. 
Very  nice  man,  Vandervelde.  Kind  as  he  could  be, 
too !  One  liked  and  trusted  him.  Clever  of  him  to 
have  so  instantly  understood  just  what  Peter  most 
craved ! 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,"  said  Peter.  "I  '11  start 
to-night." 

Vandervelde  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  His  heart 
thumped.  He  drew  a  deep  breath,  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  curling  noticeably,  and  beamed  at  Peter 
Champneys  through  his  glasses.  He  said  aloud, 
cheerfully,  "Well,  why  not?" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   POWER 

GRANDMA  BAKER'S  cottage  formed  the  ex- 
treme right  horn  of  the  crescent  that  was 
the  village.  The  middle  of  the  crescent 
backed  up  against  a  hill,  the  horns  dipped  toward 
the  shore-line  and  the  water.  Near  Grandma  Baker's 
front  gate  were  currant  bushes,  and  a  path  bordered 
with  dahlias  and  gillyflowers  led  to  the  door,  which 
had  two  stone  slabs  for  steps,  and  on  both  sides  of 
which  were  large  lilac  bushes, — she  called  them  "lay- 
locks."  Behind  the  house  were  apple-trees,  and  more 
currant  bushes,  as  well  as  gooseberries  and  raspber- 
ries. A  herb  garden  grew  under  her  kitchen  windows, 
so  that  her  kitchen  and  pantry  always  smelled  of 
thyme  and  wintergreen,  and  her  bedrooms  were  fra- 
grant with  lavender. 

The  quiet  gentleman  to  whom  she  had  given  an 
upper  room  that  looked  out  upon  woods  and  waters, 
a  bit  of  pasture,  a  stretch  of  coast,  and  a  pale  blue 
sky  full  of  sudsy  clouds,  thought  that  Mr.  Jason  Van- 
dervelde's  fervent  praises  hadn't  done  justice  to  this 
bit  of  untouched  Eden  tucked  away  in  a  bend  of  the 
Maine  coast.  It  gave  him  what  his  heart  craved — 
beauty,  fragrance,  stillness.  A  few  weather-beaten 

345 


346  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

old  men,  digging  clams,  dragging  lobster-pots,  or 
handling  a  boat.  A  few  quiet  women,  busy  with 
household  affairs.  No  one  to  have  to  talk  to.  No 
one  to  ask  him  questions.  There  was  but  one  other 
visitor  in  the  village,  Grandma  Baker  told  him,  a 
young  widow, — "a  nice  common  sort  of  a  woman," 
who  was  staying  up  the  street  with  Mis'  Thatcher. 

Mr.  Johnston,  as  the  gentleman  called  himself, 
had  n't  seen  the  "nice  common  sort  of  a  woman"  yet, 
though  he  had  been  here  a  whole  week,  and  he  was  n't 
in  the  least  curious  about  her.  He  didn't  know  that 
when  you  're  a  "nice  common  sort  of  a  woman"  to 
these  Maine  folk,  you  're  receiving  high  praise  from 
sturdy  democrats.  The  phrase,  to  him,  called  up  a 
good,  homely  creature,  amiably  innocuous,  placidly 
cow-like. 

Mr.  Johnston  slept  in  a  four-poster,  under  a  patch- 
work quilt  that  aroused  poignant  memories.  At  his 
own  request  he  ate  in  a  corner  of  the  big  kitchen,  near 
the  window  opening  upon  the  herb  garden.  Already 
he  had  struck  up  a  firm  friendship  with  his  brisk, 
strong  old  landlady. 

"Fit  in  the  war,  didn't  ye?"  asked  the  old  lady, 
genially. 

Mr.  Johnston's  face  took  on  a  look  of  weariness  and 
obstinacy.  Grandma  Baker  smiled  cheerfully. 

"Tell  the  truth  and  shame  the  devil,"  she  chirped. 
"You  fit,  but  you  needn't  be  scared  I  '11  ask  you  any 
questions  about  it.  I  mind  Abner,  my  husband, 
comin'  back  from  Virginia  after  he  'd  fit  the  hull 
dratted  Civil  War  straight  through  and  helped  win 


THE  POWER  347 

it.  And  he  wouldn't  open  his  trap.  Could  n't  bear 
havin'  to  talk  about  it.  Some  men  's  like  that.  Orn- 
ery, o'  course,  but  you  got  to  humor  'em.  You  put 
me  a  hull  lot  in  mind  o'  my  Abner."  And  she  looked 
with  great  kindliness  upon  the  taciturn  person  known 
to  her  as  Mr.  Johnston.  True  to  her  word,  she  asked 
him  no  questions.  She  fed  him,  and  let  him  alone. 

He  was  so  weary,  at  first,  that  he  did  n  't  want  to  do 
anything  but  lie  under  a  tree  idly  for  long  drowsy 
hours,  as  he  had  lain  under  the  trees  on  the  edge  of 
the  River  Swamp  years  before.  This  Maine  land- 
scape, so  rugged  and  yet  so  tender,  had  a  brooding 
and  introspective  calm,  as  of  a  serene  and  strong 
old  man  who  has  lived  a  vigorous,  simple,  and  pure 
life,  and  to  the  jangled  nerves  and  tired  mind  of 
Peter  Champneys  it  was  like  the  touch  of  a  healing 
hand.  With  every  day  he  felt  his  strength  of  mind 
and  body  returning,  and  the  restless  perturbation 
that  had  tormented  him  receding,  fading.  These 
green  and  gracious  trees,  bathed  in  a  lucent  light, 
this  sweet  sea-wind,  and  the  voice  of  the  waters,  a 
voice  monotonously  soothing,  helped  him  to  find  him- 
self,— and  to  find  himself  newer,  fresher,  a  more  vital 
personality.  This  newer  Peter  Champneys  was  not 
going  to  be,  perhaps,  so  easy-going  a  chap.  He  was 
more  insistent,  he  was  sterner;  to  the  art-conscience, 
in  itself  a  troublesome  possession,  he  was  adding  the 
race-conscience,  which  questions,  demands,  and  will 
have  nothing  short  of  the  truth.  He  had  been  forced 
to  see  things  as  they  are,  things  stripped  of  pleasant 
trappings  and  made  brutally  bare ;  and  his  conscience 


348  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

and  his  courage  now  arose  to  face  facts.  Any  misery, 
rather  than  be  slave  to  shams!  Any  grief  to  bear, 
any  price  to  pay,  but  let  him  possess  his  own  soul, 
let  him  have  the  truth ! 

He  could  not  sit  in  judgment  upon  himself  as  an 
artist  only ;  he  had  to  take  himself  seriously  as  a  very 
wealthy  man  in  an  hour  when  very  wealthy  men  stood, 
so  to  speak,  before  the  tribunal  of  the  conscience  of 
mankind.  He  could  not  afford  to  be  crushed  by  the 
burden  of  much  money.  Neither  could  he  ignore  the 
stern  question:  what  was  he  going  to  do  with  the 
Champneys  wealth?  He  wished  that  that  red-headed 
woman  had  taken  half  of  it  off  his  hands ! 

The  Champneys  money  made  him  very  thoughtful 
this  morning,  walking  with  his  hands  behind  his 
back,  his  head  bare  to  the  wind.  The  water  rippled 
in  the  sunlight.  Out  on  the  horizon  a  solitary  sail 
glimmered.  The  semicircle  of  village  houses  resem- 
bled the  white  beads  of  a  broken  necklace,  lying  ex- 
actly where  they  'd  fallen.  He  turned  a  small  head- 
land, and  the  village  vanished. 

He  had  a  pleasant  sense  of  being  alone  with  this 
rocky  coast,  with  its  salty-sweet  wind,  its  blue  water, 
its  limitless  sky,  from  which  poured  a  flood  of  clear, 
pale  golden  sunlight.  And  then,  as  if  out  of  the  heart 
of  them  all,  came  a  figure  immensely  alive,  the  light 
focusing  upon  her  as  if  she  were  the  true  meaning 
of  the  picture  in  which  she  appeared ;  as  if  this  back- 
ground were  not  accidental,  but  had  been  chosen  and 
arranged  for  her  with  delicate  and  deliberate  care. 

He  thought  he  had  never  seen  any  woman's  body 


THE  POWER  349 

so  superbly  free  in  its  movement:  she  had  the  grace 
of  a  birch  stirred  by  a  spring  wind.  The  poise  of 
her  shoulders,  the  sweep  of  her  garments  blown  by 
the  sea-breeze,  the  joyous  and  vigorous  grace  of  her 
whole  attitude,  reminded  him  of  the  winged  Victory. 
So  might  that  splendid  vision  have  walked  upon  the 
glad  Greek  coast  in  the  bright  light  of  the  world's 
morning. 

The  woman  walked  swiftly,  lightly,  her  head  held 
high,  her  long  loose  hair  blown  about  her  like  flame. 
Where  the  rough  path  narrowed  between  two  large 
boulders,  he  had  paused  to  allow  her  to  pass ;  and  so 
they  came  face  to  face,  he  the  taller  by  a  head.  She 
lifted  her  cool,  gray-green  eyes  that  had  in  them  the 
silvery  sparkle  of  the  sea,  and  met  his  golden  gaze. 
Her  face  framed  in  her  flaming  mane  was  warmly 
pale,  the  brow  thoughtful,  the  mouth  virginal.  For 
a  long  moment  they  regarded  each  other  steadily, 
wonderingly;  and  in  that  single  moment  the  eternal 
miracle  occurred  by  which  life  and  the  face  of  the 
world  changed  for  them. 

That  long,  clear,  grave  gaze  pierced  her  heart  like  a 
golden  poniard.  He  was  of  a  thin  body  and  visage, 
but  the  effect  was  of  virility,  not  weakness, — as  if  the 
soul  of  him,  like  a  blade  in  a  scabbard,  had  fretted 
the  body  fine.  There  was  a  quiet  stateliness  in  his 
bearing,  a  simple  and  unaffected  dignity,  to  which 
the  thick,  blue-black  hair,  the  foreign  beard,  and  the 
aquiline  features  lent  an  added  touch  of  distinction. 
One  was  reminded  of  those  dangerously  mild  and 
rather  sad  faces  of  Spanish  soldiers  which  look  at  one 


350  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

from  Velasquez's  canvases.  This  man  might  wear  a 
ruff  and  a  velvet  doublet,  or,  better  yet,  a  coat  of  mail, 
she  reflected,  instead  of  the  well-cut  but  rather  worn 
gray  tweeds  that  clothed  him. 

She  was  not  conscious  of  her  flying  hair,  or  the 
wind-blown  disorder  of  her  skirts.  She  was  conscious, 
rather,  that  for  the  first  time  a  man  was  looking  at 
her  as  from  a  height,  and  she  was  filled  with  a  beauti- 
ful astonishment,  a  sort  of  divine  amazement,  as  if 
it  were  toward  this  that  always,  inevitably,  she  had 
been  moving, — and  now  it  was  here!  Her  blood 
leaped  to  it,  and  went  racing  fierily  through  her 
veins,  as  if  there  had  been  poured  into  it  the  elixir 
of  life.  She  was  gloriously  conscious  of  her  youth 
and  her  womanhood.  A  quick  and  vivid  rush  of 
warm  blood  stained  her,  brow  to  bosom.  Her  every- 
day mind  was  saying,  "It  is  the  stranger  who  's  stay- 
ing at  Grandma  Baker's — the  gentleman  who  's  been 
ill."  But  beyond  and  behind  her  every-day  mind, 
her  heart  was  shouting,  exultant,  ecstatic,  and  very 
sure:  "It  is  You !  It  is  You !" 

In  quick  sympathy  with  that  bright  flush  of  hers 
the  blood  showed  for  an  instant  in  his  pale  face.  He 
had  been  staring  at  her!  An  agitation  new  to  him, 
an  emotion  to  which  all  others  he  had  ever  expe- 
rienced were  childishly  mild,  filled  him  as  the  resist- 
less sweep  of  the  sea  at  flood  tide  fills  the  shallows  of 
the  shores.  Love  did  not  come  to  him  gently  and 
insidiously,  but  as  with  the  overwhelming  rush  of 
great  waters.  This,  then,  must  be  that  "nice,  com- 


THE  POWER  351 

mon  sort  of  a  woman"  staying  with  the  Widow 
Thatcher,  at  the  other  end  of  the  village — this  woman 
clothed  with  the  sun  of  her  red  hair,  and  with  the 
sea  in  her  eyes!  A  smile  curved  his  lips.  His  kin- 
dling glance  played  over  her  like  lightning,  and  said 
to  her:  "I  know  you.  I  have  always  known  you. 
Do  you  not  recognize  me?  I  am  I, — and  you  are 
You!" 

Had  he  obeyed  his  instincts,  he  would  have  flung 
himself  before  her  and  clasped  her  around  the  knees. 
Being  a  modern  gentleman,  he  had  to  stand  aside, 
bowing,  and  let  her  pass.  She,  too,  bowed  slightly. 
She  went  by  with  her  quick  and  resilient  tread,  her 
cheek  royally  red.  A  wind  roared  in  her  ears,  her 
heart  beat  thickly. 

When  she  had  turned  the  little  headland  she  paused, 
and  mechanically  braided  her  hair.  Her  fingers  shook, 
and  she  breathed  as  if  she  had  been  running.  The 
incredible,  the  unbelievable,  had  pounced  upon  her  as 
from  a  clear  sky,  and  the  world  was  never  again  to 
be  the  same.  She  had  been  so  sure,  so  safe,  with  her 
pleasant  life  all  mapped  out  before  her,  like  the  raked 
and  swept  paths  of  an  ordered  and  formal  garden ; 
a  life  in  which  reason  and  convention  and  culture  and 
wealth  should  rule,  and  from  which  tumultuous  and 
tormenting  passions  and  disorderly  emotions  should 
be  rigidly  excluded.  In  that  ordered  existence,  she 
would  be,  if  not  happy,  at  least  satisfied  and  proud. 
And  now !  A  strange  man  in  passing  had  looked  into 
her  eyes;  love  had  come,  and  the  gates  of  her  formal 


352  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

garden  had  been  pulled  down,  wild  nature  threatened 
to  invade  and  overrun  her  trimmed  and  clipped  bor- 
ders and  her  smooth  lawns. 

The  Widow  Thatcher  commented  approvingly  upon 
her  fine  color  when  she  appeared  at  the  house. 

"You  just  stay  here  a  leetle  mite  longer,  Mis' 
Eiley,  and  you  '11  be  that  changed  you  won't  know 
yourself,"  said  the  kindly  woman,  heartily. 

' '  I  'm  sure  of  that ! ' '  murmured  her  guest. 

The  red-haired  lady  who  called  herself  Mrs.  Eiley — 
Eiley  had  been  her  mother's  name — had  been,  up  to 
this  time,  an  altogether  satisfying  guest,  simple, 
friendly,  with  a  sound  and  healthy  appetite,  and  well 
deserving  that  praiseful  "nice,  common  sort  of  a 
woman"  bestowed  upon  her.  Now,  mysteriously,  she 
changed.  She  wasn't  less  friendly,  but  her  appe- 
tite was  capricious  and  she  would  fall  into  reveries, 
sudden  fits  of  gravity,  sitting  beside  the  window, 
staring  somberly  out  at  the  waters.  She  would  snatch 
up  her  hat  and  go  out,  get  as  far  as  the  gate,  and 
return  to  the  house.  Mrs.  Thatcher  heard  her  pacing 
up  and  down  her  room,  when  she  should  have  been 
sound  asleep.  She  would  laugh,  and  then  sigh  upon 
the  heels  of  it,  break  into  fitful  singing,  and  fall  into 
sudden  silence  in  the  midst  of  her  song. 

"She  's  gettin'  religion,"  the  widow  reflected. 
"The  Spirit's  workin'  on  her.  'T  ain't  nothin'  I 
can  do  except  pray  for  her."  And  the  simple  soul 
got  on  her  knees  and  besought  Heaven  that  the  stran- 
ger under  her  roof  might  "escape  whatever  trouble 


THE  POWER  353 

'tis  that's  threatenin'  her,  0  Lord,  an'  save  her 
soul  alive ! ' ' 

Although  the  widow  did  n  't  know  it,  her  guest  had 
come  to  the  dividing  of  the  ways.  She  had  come  to 
this  quiet  place  to  find  peace,  to  rest,  to  escape  from 
the  world  for  a  breathing-space.  And  in  this  quiet 
place  that  which  had  missed  her  in  the  great  outside 
world  had  come  to  her,  the  most  tremendous  of  all 
powers  had  seized  upon  her.  The  situation  was  not 
without  a  sly  and  ironical  humor. 

She  wondered  what  Marcia  would  say  if  she  should 
write  to  her:  "I  have  fallen  in  love  at  sight,  hope- 
lessly, irremediably,  head  over  ears,  with  a  strange 
man  who  passed  me  on  the  shore.  He  wears  gray 
tweeds.  His  name,  I  am  told,  is  Johnston.  That  's 
all  I  know  about  him,  except  that  I  seem  to  have 
known  him  since  the  beginning  of  all  things.  He  is 
as  familiar  to  my  heart  as  my  blood  is,  and  all  he 
had  to  do  to  make  me  love  him  was  to  look  at  me. 
Yes!  I  love  him  as  I  could  never  love  anybody  but 
him.  He  's  the  one  man." 

She  could  fancy  Marcia 's  astonishment,  her 
shocked  "Oh,  but  Anne,  there  's  Berkeley  Hay- 
den  ! ' ' 

And  indeed,  there  was  Berkeley  Hayden ! 

When  Anne  had  determined  to  have  her  marriage 
to  Peter  Champneys  annulled,  Marcia  had  upheld 
her,  though  Jason  hadn't  liked  it  at  all.  If  he 
hadn't  exactly  opposed  her  course,  he  had  tried  to 
dissuade  her  from  it.  But  she  had  persisted,  and  as 


354  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

the  case  was  simple  and  quite  clear  her  freedom  was 
a  foregone  conclusion,  though  there  were,  of  course, 
the  usual  formalities,  the  usual  wearisome  delays. 

She  had  closed  the  Champneys  house,  and  gone  to 
Marcia,  who  wanted  her.  Jason,  too,  had  insisted 
that  she  should  make  her  home  with  them  for  the 
time  being.  And  then  had  come  the  war,  and  she 
and  Marcia  found  themselves  swept  into  the  whirlpool 
of  work  it  involved.  But  not  even  the  tremendous 
news  that  filled  all  the  newspapers  had  kept  the 
Champneys  romance  from  being  featured.  Her  case 
received  very  much  more  notice  than  pleased  her. 
She  was  weary  of  her  own  photographs,  sick  of  the 
interest  she  aroused. 

Hayden  kept  discreetly  in  the  background.  He  be- 
haved beautifully.  But  he  knew  that  Anne  was  go- 
ing to  marry  him.  Jason  and  Marcia  knew  it.  Anne 
herself  knew  it.  Now  that  the  war  was  on,  a  good 
many  of  his  plans  would  have  to  be  postponed,  but 
when  Anne  had  secured  her  freedom,  and  things  had 
righted  themselves,  they  two  would  take  up  life  as 
he  wished  to  live  it.  All  the  women  of  his  family 
had  occupied  prominent  social  positions:  his  wife 
should  surpass  them  all.  She  should  be  the  acknowl- 
edged leader,  the  most  brilliant  figure  of  her  day. 
Nothing  less  than  this  would  satisfy  him. 

For  all  his  esthetic  tastes,  Hayden  was  an  im- 
mensely able  and  capable  man  of  business.  He  had 
not  the  warmth  of  heart  that  at  times  obscured  Jason 
Vandervelde's  judgment,  nor  the  touch  of  unworld- 
liness  that  marked  the  behavior  of  the  Champneys 


THE  POWER  355 

men.  His  intellect  had  a  cold,  clear  brilliancy,  dia- 
mond-bright, diamond-hard ;  to  this  he  added  tact,  and 
the  power  of  organizing  and  directing  and  of  getting 
results.  In  certain  crises  such  men  are  invaluable. 

Hayden  hated  war.  It  was,  so  to  speak,  an  un- 
couth and  barbarous  gesture,  a  bestial  and  bellowing 
voice.  He  felt  constrained  to  offer  his  services,  and 
even  before  America  became  actually  involved  he  was 
able  to  render  valuable  aid.  There  were  delicate  and 
dangerous  missions  where  his  tact,  his  diplomacy,  and 
his  shrewd,  cold,  unimpassioned  intelligence  won  the 
stakes  for  which  he  played.  This  in  itself  was  good ; 
but  for  the  time  being  it  took  him  away  from  Anne. 
He  saw  her  only  occasionally.  She,  like  him,  was  im- 
mersed in  work.  Once  or  twice  he  was  able  to  snatch 
her  from  the  thick  of  things  and  carry  her  off  with 
him  to  lunch  or  to  dinner.  She  enjoyed  these  small 
oases  in  the  desert  of  work.  She  liked  to  watch  his 
clever,  composed  face,  to  listen  to  his  modulated 
voice.  The  serene  ease  of  his  manner  soothed  her. 
She  was  tremendously  proud  of  Hayden.  She  was 
glad  he  cared  for  her.  This  seemed  to  her  an  excel- 
lent foundation  for  their  marriage.  They  would 
please  and  interest  each  other;  neither  would  be 
bored!  And  when,  leaning  across  the  table  one  day 
at  lunch,  he  looked  at  her  with  unwonted  fire  in  his 
quiet  eyes,  and  said  in  a  low  voice:  "Just  as  soon 
as  this  business  is  finished,  as  soon  as  we  've  cleaned 
up  the  mess,  I'm  going  to  claim  you,  Anne.  It  's  all 
I  can  do  to  wait ! ' '  Anne  met  his  eyes,  smiled  slightly, 
and  nodded.  A  faint  flush  rose  to  her  cheek,  and  a 


356  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

deeper  one  rose  to  his.  For  a  moment  he  touched 
her  hand. 

"You  understand  you  are  promised  to  me,"  he  said. 
"If  I  dared  show  you  what  I  really  feel,  Anne — " 
and  he  glanced  around  the  crowded  dining-room,  and 
smiled. 

She  smiled  in  return,  tranquilly.  She  was  not 
stirred.  His  touch  had  no  power  to  thrill  her.  She 
was  comfortably  content  that  things  should  be  as  they 
were,  that  was  all.  Yet  her  very  lack  of  emotion 
added  to  her  charm  for  him.  He  disliked  emotional 
women.  Excess  of  affection  would  have  bored  him. 
It  smacked  of  crudeness,  and  he  had  an  epicurean 
distaste  for  crudeness. 

Busy  as  he  was,  he  found  time  to  select  the  ring 
he  wished  her  to  wear.  He  was  fastidious  and  hyper- 
critical to  a  degree,  and  he  wished  her  ring  to  suit 
her,  to  be  flawless.  It  was  really  a  work  of  art,  and 
Anne  Champneys  wondered  at  her  own  coolness  when 
she  received  the  exquisite  jewel.  She  understood  his 
feeling,  she  appreciated  the  beauty  of  the  gem,  yet  it 
left  her  unmoved.  It  gratified  her  woman's  vanity ;  it 
did  not  stir  her  to  one  heart-throb.  She  accepted  it, 
not  indifferently,  but  placidly.  After  a  while  she 
would  accept  a  plain  gold  ring  from  him  just  as 
placidly.  This  was  her  fate.  She  did  not  quarrel 
with  it. 

Marcia  watched  her  pleasedly.  She  loved  Anne 
Champneys,  she  admired  Hayden  exceedingly,  and 
that  they  should  marry  each  other  seemed  natural 
and  inevitable.  Hayden  was  just  the  man  she  would 


THE  POWER  357 

have  chosen  for  Anne.  Even  the  fact  that  Jason 
wasn't  altogether  happy  about  it  couldn't  dampen 
Marcia's  delight  in  the  affair.  Jason  would  come 
around,  in  time.  He  was  too  fond  of  Anne  not  to. 

"Well,  you  're  free,"  he  had  told  Anne,  the  day 
that  the  Champneys  marriage  was  declared  null  and 
void,  and  both  parties  had  received  the  right  to  re- 
marry, as  a  matter  of  course.  "You  are  free.  I  'm 
sure  I  hope  you  won't  regret  it!" 

"Why  should  I  regret  it?"  wondered  Anne,  good- 
humoredly.  But  the  big  man  shook  his  head,  remem- 
bering Chadwick  Champneys. 

Hayden  had  become  more  and  more  involved  in 
war  work;  he  was  in  constant  demand,  he  was  sent 
hither  and  thither  to  attend  to  this  and  that  trouble- 
some affair.  Twice  he  had  to  go  abroad.  At  home, 
Anne's  work  called  her  into  the  homes  of  soldiers; 
she  came  in  close  contact  with  the  families  of  the 
men  who  were  fighting,  and  what  she  saw  she  was 
never  able  to  forget.  She  got  down  to  bed-rock. 
Her  own  early  life  made  her  acutely  understanding. 
Where  Marcia  would  have  been  blind,  Anne  saw; 
where  the  woman  who  had  never  known  poverty  anda 
hardship  would  have  remained  deaf,  the  woman  who 
had  slaved  in  the  Baxters'  kitchen,  who  had  been  an 
overworked,  unloved  child  in  bondage,  heard,  and  un- 
derstood to  the  core  of  her  soul  what  she  was  hearing. 
These  voices  from  the  depths  were  not  inarticulate  to 
Anne! 

When  Berkeley  came  back  from  his  second  voyage 
abroad,  he  was  more  impatient  than  she  had  ever  seen 


358  THE  PUEPLE  HEIGHTS 

him.  The  end  was  in  sight  then,  as  he  knew,  and  he 
saw  no  reason  for  further  delay.  He  urged  Anne  to 
marry  him.  Why  should  they  waste  time?  When 
he  consulted  Marcia,  she  agreed  with  him.  Every- 
body, she  said,  was  getting  married.  Why  should  n  't 
he  and  Anne?  Already  the  rumor  of  their  engage- 
ment had  crept  out.  There  were  hints  of  it  in 
the  social  chatter  of  the  papers.  Why  not  announce 
it  formally,  and  have  the  marriage  follow  immedi- 
ately? 

But  Anne  Champneys  found  herself  in  a  curious 
mood.  The  nervous  strain  of  war  work,  perhaps,  was 
accountable.  She  meant  to  marry  Berkeley;  but  she 
didn't  want  to  marry  him  at  once.  She  did  not 
object  to  having  their  engagement  announced.  He 
could  shout  it  from  the  housetops  if  that  pleased  him. 
But  in  the  meanwhile  she  wanted  a  little  rest,  a  little 
freedom.  She  wished  to  be  fetterless,  free  to  come 
and  go  as  she  pleased.  No  work,  no  interviews,  no 
photographers,  no  weary  hours  with  dressmakers  and 
tailors.  No  envy  because  Berkeley  Hayden  was  go- 
ing to  marry  her,  no  wearisome  comments,  idle  flat- 
tery hiding  spite,  no  gossip  violating  all  privacies. 
A  raging  impatience  against  it  all  assailed  her.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  never  been  allowed  really 
to  think  or  to  act  for  herself  disinterestedly,  that  she 
had  never  been  free.  Always  she  had  been  in  bond- 
age! Oh,  for  just  a  little  hour  of  freedom,  in  the 
open,  to  be  just  as  ordinary  and  inconspicuous  as  in 
her  heart  of  hearts  she  would  have  preferred  to  be, 
left  to  herself ! 


THE  POWER  359 

Marcia  said  her  nerves  were  unstrung,  and  no  won- 
der, considering  how  she  'd  worked,  and  what  she  'd 
seen.  Jason  came  vigorously  to  her  rescue.  He  ad- 
vised her  to  go  off  somewhere  and  get  acquainted  with 
herself.  To  drop  out  of  things  for  a  while,  and  treat 
herself  to  the  rest  she  needed.  Cut  and  run !  Scut- 
tle for  cover! 

"You  've  been  overdoing  things,  of  course.  You  've 
been  Lady  Bountiful,  and  first-aider,  and  last-leaver. 
Like  the  Lord  and  a  thumping  good  lie,  you  've  been 
a  very  present  help  in  time  of  trouble.  But  there  'a 
such  a  thing  as  being  too  steady  on  the  job.  You 
need  a  change  of  people,  scene,  and  mind.  Take  it. ' ' 

This  conversation  occurred  on  a  morning  in  his 
office,  where  she  had  gone  on  some  slight  business, 
and  with  concern  he  had  noticed  her  tired  eyes.  At 
his  advice  she  brightened. 

"Marcia  thinks  I  should  marry  Berkeley,  imme- 
diately, and  let  him  take  me  away,  but — " 

"But  you  aren't  ready  to  rush  into  matrimony 
just  yet?"  Vandervelde  growled.  "I  should  think 
you  would  n  't  be !  If  Hadyen  's  managed  to  exist 
this  long  without  a  wife,  I  take  it  for  granted  he  can 
exist  unwed  a  little  longer.  You  are  certain  you 
mean  to  marry  him?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  am  certain  I  mean  to  marry  him,"  said 
Anne,  flatly.  "But  I — that  is,  not  so  soon." 

"I  think  I  understand,  Anne,"  said  the  big  man, 
kindly.  "Look  here,  you  just  tell  'em  all  to  wait! 
Tell  'em  you  're  tired.  Then  you  pick  yourself  up 
and  light  out  for  a  while,  by  yourself.  Chuck  the 


360  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

madding  throng  and  all  that,  Anne,  and  beat  it  for 
the  open ! ' ' 

' '  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  could ! "  she  sighed.  ' '  You  don 't 
know  how  I  long  for  a  chance  to  be  just  me  by  my- 
self! I  want  to  stay  with  people  who  have  never 
heard  the  name  of  Champneys  or  Hayden  and  who 
wouldn't  care  if  my  name  happened  to  be  Mudd! 
I  want  plain  living  and  plain  thinking  and  plain 
people.  I — I  '11  come  back  to — everything  I  should 
come  back  to,  afterward.  But  first  I  want  to  be  free ! 
Just  for  a  little  while  I  want  to  be  free!" 

"But  how  could  you  manage  it?"  mused  Vander- 
velde.  "The  lady  who  divorced  Peter  Champneys 
and  is  going  to  marry  Berkeley  Hayden  can't  pick 
herself  up  'unbeknownst'  and  hope  to  get  away 
with  it.  Not  in  these  days  of  good  reporting! 
You  're  copy,  you  understand." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  be  Mrs.  Peter  Champneys! 
I  don't  want  to  be  the  woman  Berkeley  Hayden  's 
going  to  marry!  I  want  to  be  just  me!"  she  cried. 
"I  want  to  go  to  some  place  where  nobody  's  ever 
heard  either  of  those  names !  Some  little  place  where 
there  are  water  and  trees — and  not  much  else.  Like, 
say, — Jason !  Do  you  remember  that  place  you  found, 
in  Maine,  I  think  ?  You  babbled  about  it.  Said  you 
were  going  to  go  there  if  ever  you  wanted  to  get  out 
of  the  world.  Said  it  was  Eden  before  the  serpent 
entered.  Where  's  that  place,  Jason?  Why  can't 
I  go  there,  just  as  myself — "  she  paused,  and  looked 
at  him  hopefully. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  can't,"  said  he,  cheerfully. 


THE  POWER  361 

And  so  Anne,  who  didn't  wish  to  be  Mrs.  Peter 
Champneys,  or  the  woman  whom  Berkeley  Hayden 
was  to  marry,  or  anybody  but  herself,  came  to  the 
out-of-the-way  nook  on  the  Maine  shore,  and  was 
welcomed  by  the  Widow  Thatcher. 

She  found  the  place  idyllic.  She  liked  its  skies  un- 
clouded by  smoke,  translucent  skies  in  which  silver 
mountains  of  clouds  reared  themselves  out  of  airy 
continents  that  shifted  and  drifted  before  the  wind. 
She  liked  its  clean,  pure,  untainted  air.  And  she 
liked  contact  with  these  simple  souls,  men  who  la- 
bored, women  who  knew  birth  and  death  and  were  not 
afraid  of  either.  It  came  to  her  that  her  own  con- 
tacts with  and  concepts  of  life — and  death — had  al- 
ways been  more  or  less  artificial.  Perhaps  these  sim- 
ple and  laborious  folk  had  the  substance  of  things  of 
which  she  and  her  sort  had  but  the  shadow.  And 
then  she  asked  herself:  Well,  but  couldn't  one, 
anywhere,  in  any  circumstances,  make  life  real  for 
oneself,  meet  facts  unafraid?  Get  at  the  truths, 
somehow?  That  's  what  she  had  to  find  out! 

And  of  a  sudden  she  had  been  answered.  The  real- 
ity, the  truth,  the  real  meaning  of  life  was  made 
plain  to  her  when  a  man  she  didn't  know,  and  yet 
knew  to  the  last  fiber  of  her  soul,  had  paused  to  look 
into  her  eyes. 

For  two  or  three  days  she  went  no  further  than 
the  rambling  garden  at  the  back  of  the  house.  She 
tried  to  read,  and  couldn't.  From  every  page  those 
eyes  looked  at  her.  There  was  more  in  that  remem- 
bered glance  than  in  any  book  ever  written,  and  she 


362  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

was  torn  between  the  desire  to  meet  it  again  and  the 
fear  of  meeting  it. 

On  the  night  of  the  third  day  she  sat  with  her 
elbows  on  her  windowsill,  looking  out  at  the  moonlight 
night.  A  sweet  wind  touched  her  face,  like  the  breath 
of  love.  There  arose  the  scent  of  quiet  places,  of 
trees  and  flowers  and  herbs,  mingled  with  the  vast 
breathing  of  the  sea.  And  she  thought  the  sea  called 
to  her,  an  imperious  and  yet  caressing  voice  in  the 
night.  She  stirred  restlessly.  Down  there  on  the 
shore-line,  where  she  had  met  him,  the  rocks  would 
glint  with  silvery  reflections,  the  water  would  come 
fawning  to  one's  feet,  the  wind  would  pounce  upon  one 
like  a  rough  lover.  She  stirred  restlessly.  The  small 
bedroom  seemed  to  hold  her  like  a  cage.  And  again 
the  sea  called,  a  wild  and  compelling  voice. 

Her  blood  stirred  to  the  magic  of  the  night.  Her 
eyes  gleamed,  her  cheek  reddened.  She  listened  for 
a  moment,  intently.  The  Widow  Thatcher  slept  the 
sleep  of  the  good  housekeeper.  No  one  was  stirring. 
She  could  have  the  night,  the  wind,  the  sea,  to  herself. 
Noiselessly  she  stole  downstairs  and  let  herself  out. 

Out  there,  with  the  scent  of  the  summer  night 
greeting  her,  with  bushes  brushing  her  lightly  with 
their  green  fingers,  her  heart  leaped  joyously.  She 
flung  her  arms  over  her  head  and  went  running  down 
the  path  to  the  water,  a  tall  white  figure  with  flying 
hair.  Then  she  turned  the  small  headland,  and  the 
village  dropped  behind  her.  Overhead  the  big  gold 
lamp  of  the  moon  lighted  shore  and  sea.  And  here 


THE  POWER  363 

came  the  sea-wind,  bracing,  strong,  and  sweet.  At 
the  rush  of  it  she  laughed  aloud,  and  the  wind  seized 
upon  her  laughter  and  tossed  it  into  the  night  like 
airy  bells. 

She  slackened  her  wild  race  when  she  neared  the 
great  boulders  shutting  in  the  little  narrow  path 
where  she  had  met  him,  and  stood  flushed,  panting, 
her  shining  glance  uplifted,  her  bright  hair  framing 
the  sweetness  of  her  face.  And  even  as  she  paused, 
he  stepped  out  of  the  shadow  and  confronted  her. 
As  if  he  had  been  awaiting  her.  As  if  he  had  known 
she  must  come.  He  said,  in  a  voice  vibrant  with 
fierce  joy: 

''It  is  You!" 

She  answered,  in  a  shaking  tone,  like  a  child: 
"Yes,  I  had  to  come,"  and  stood  there  looking  at 
him,  face  uplifted,  lips  apart. 

He  drew  nearer.  "Why?"  said  he,  in  a  whisper. 
"Why?" 

She  did  not  reply.  For  a  long  moment  they  re- 
garded each  other,  passion-pale  in  the  moonlight. 

' '  Was  it  because — you  knew  I  must  be  here ! "  he 
asked. 

Her  hands  went  to  her  leaping  heart.  She  had  no 
faintest  notion  of  concealing  the  truth,  for  there  was 
no  coquetry  in  her.  These  two  facing  each  other  were 
as  honest  as  the  rocky  coast,  as  unabashed  as  the 
wind.  They  had  no  more  thought  of  subterfuges  and 
conventions  than  the  sea  had.  They  were  as  real  as 
nature  itself. 


364  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

He  bent  upon  her  his  compelling  glance,  which 
seemed  to  lift  her  as  upon  golden  pinions.  She  was 
thrillingly  conscious  of  his  nearness. 

"You  knew  I  would  be  here?"  he  repeated. 

She  drew  a  deep  breath.     "Yes!"  she  sighed. 

And  at  that,  inevitably,  irresistibly,  they  rushed 
together.  He  caught  her  in  a  mighty  embrace  and 
she  gave  him  back  his  kiss  with  a  heavenly  shameless- 
ness,  a  glorious  passion,  naive  and  pure.  It  was  as 
if  she  were  born  anew  in  the  fire  of  his  lips.  For  she 
was  sure,  with  a  crystal  clarity.  This  man  whose 
heart  beat  against  hers  was  her  high  destiny.  Body 
and  soul,  she  was  his.  His  kiss  was  the  chrism  of 
life.  And  he,  fallen  into  the  same  divine  lunacy, 
was  equally  sure.  He  had  been  born  a  man  to  hold 
this  strong  sweet  body  in  his  arms,  to  meet  this  spirit 
that  complemented  his  own.  Not  in  high  and  lonely 
altitudes  whose  cold  stillness  chilled  the  heart,  but  by 
simple  paths  to  peace,  in  a  simple  and  passionate 
woman 's  love,  could  he  gain  the  purple  heights ! 


CHAPTEE  XX 

AND  THE  GLORY 

HE   had  said   quietly:     "You   are   going  to 
marry  me!" 
And  she  had  replied,  as  if  there  could  be 
no  possible  doubt  about  it: 

"Yes,  I  am  going  to  marry  you." 

"Because  you  love  me  better  than  anything  or  any- 
body else  in  all  the  world,  even  as  I  love  you." 

"Because  I  love  you  better  than  anything  or  any- 
body else  in  all  the  world,"  she  repeated. 

"So  far,  so  good.    When,  Beloved  Lady?" 

At  that  she  hesitated  for  a  space  and  fell  silent. 
He  pressed  her  head  closer,  and  bending  his  tall  head 
laid  his  cheek  to  hers. 

"When?" 

"Presently.  But  before  that,  dearest  and  best  of 
men,  there  are  so  many,  many  things  I  wish  to  tell 
you,  so  many  things  I  wish  you  to  know !  I  wish  you 
to  know  me.  Everything  about  me!  For  once  upon 
a  time  there  was  a  sad,  neglected  child,  a  piteous  child 
I  must  make  you  acquainted  with.  There  was  an 
ignorant  and  undisciplined  young  girl — " 

"You?" 

She  nodded  sorrowfully.  His  clasp  tightened.  He 
slipped  a  hand  beneath  her  chin,  tilted  her  face  up- 

365 


366  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

ward,  and  kissed  her  eyes  that  had  suddenly  filled 
with  tears,  her  lips  that  quivered. 

"Beloved  Lady,  I  understand:  for  there  was  once 
upon  a  time  a  sad,  neglected  child,  an  ugly  little  tad, 
barefooted  and  poverty-stricken  after  his  mother's 
death.  There  was  an  ignorant  and  undisciplined 
boy—" 

"You?"  Her  arms  went  around  him  protectingly, 
in  a  mothering  and  tender  clasp. 

"Who  else?  And  being  very  ignorant  indeed,  he 
sold  himself  into  bondage  for  a  mess  of  pottage,  and 
was  thrall  for  weary  years.  He  got  exactly  what  he 
paid  for.  And  life  was  ashes  upon  his  head  and 
wormwood  in  his  mouth,  and  his  heart  was  empty  in 
his  breast,  because  he  snatched  at  shadows.  And  then 
one  day  the  door  of  his  prison  was  opened  by  the 
keeper,  and  he  said,  'Now  I  am  free !'  But  it  was  his 
fate  to  go  down  into  hell  for  a  season.  There  were 
times  when  he  asked  himself,  'Why  don't  I  blow  out 
my  brains  and  escape?'  Nothing  but  the  simple  faith 
and  heroism  of  common  men  about  him  saved  him 
from  despair.  One  day  a  blinded  soldier  said,  'See 
for  us ! '  So  he  began  to  see, — but  still  without  hope, 
still  without  happiness,  until  he  came  here  and  found 
— you."  His  voice  was  melted  gold. 

She  had  listened  breathlessly.  And  after  a  pause 
she  asked : 

"Who  was — the  keeper  of  his  prison?" 

"The  woman  to  whom  he  had  been  married." 

Her  arms  fell  from  him.  She  tried  to  draw  herself 
away,  but  he  held  her  all  the  closer. 


AND  THE  GLORY  367 

"Do  not  think  unkindly  of  her.  I  don't  think  she 
really  knew  she  was  an  ogress!  After  all,  she  did 
unlock  the  door  and  say,  'Go!'  And — well,  here  I 
am,  darling  woman.  And  I  'm  going  to  marry  you!" 

"Did  you  never  love  her?" 

"Never.  I  was  so  frightfully  unhappy  that  the 
best  I  could  do  was  not  to  hate  her.  I'm  afraid  she 
hated  me — poor  ogress !  Well !  That 's  all  over  and 
done  with.  Like  an  evil  dream.  I  'm  here,  and 
you  're  going  to  marry  me."  Very  gently  he  drew 
her  arms  around  him  again.  "Ah,  hold  fast  to  me! 
Hold  fast!  I  have  waited  for  you  so  long,  I  need 
you  so  much ! "  he  breathed. 

"I  don't  seem  able  to  help  myself!"  she  sighed. 
And  she  asked  seriously:  "What  do  the  people  who 
love  you  most  call  you  when  they  speak  to  you?" 

The  brown  and  bearded  faces  of  comrades  rose  be- 
fore him,  their  voices  sounded  in  his  ears. 

"Pierre." 

"Pierre,"  said  she,  bravely,  as  if  to  call  him  by 
his  name  emboldened  her,  "I  too  have  been  freed 
from  a  hateful  marriage.  Sometime  I  will  tell  you 
all  about  it.  But — oh,  do  not  let  us  talk  about  it 
now !  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  him !  I  cannot  bear 
to  have  his  shadow,  even,  fall  upon  me  now,  or  come 
near  you!"  That  gangling  bridegroom  in  his  ill- 
fitting  suit,  with  his  wincing  mouth,  his  eyes  full  of 
disgust  and  aversion,  his  air  of  a  man  sentenced  to 
death — or  marriage  with  herself — came  before  her, 
and  she  shivered. 
Despite  her  words  a  horrible  jealousy  of  that  un- 


368  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

known     man     assailed     him.    He     asked     fiercely: 

"You  loved  him,  once?" 

"Oh,  no!  Oh,  no!  Never!  I — why,  Pierre,  until 
you  came,  I  didn't  even  know  what  love  meant! 
Once  that  ignorant,  undisciplined  girl  I  spoke  of, 
thought  she  loved  a  boy.  She  did  n't.  She  loved  the 
idea  of  love.  And  once  again,  Pierre,  because  my  life 
was  so  empty,  and  because  I  didn't  know  any  better, 
I  thought  I  should  be  willing  to  marry  somebody 
else.  I  thought  that  somebody  else  could  fill  my  life. 
But  now  I  know  that  could  never  be.  You  are  here." 

He  looked  at  her  with  infinite  tenderness.  There 
were  things  he,  too,  would  have  to  tell  her,  by  and  by. 
And  he  was  sure  that  the  woman  whose  coming  little 
Denise  had  seemed  to  foreknow,  would  understand. 
He  said  gravely: 

"Yes,  we  have  found  each  other.  That  is  all  that 
really  matters.  Nothing,  nobody  else,  counts  with 
you  and  me."  And  then,  of  a  sudden,  he  laughed 
happily:  "And,  Beloved  Lady,  I  do  not  know  your 
name!  I  can't  call  you  'Mrs.  Riley,'  can  I?  By 
what  name,  then,  shall  the  one  who  loves  you  most 
call  you?" 

"Anne."  And  she  asked  eagerly:  "Do  you  like 
it?" 

He  started.  Anne!  Strange  that  the  name  that 
had  been  his  chiefest  unhappiness  should  now  become 
his  chiefest  joy!  Strange  that  he  hadn't  guessed 
Anne  could  be  the  most  beautiful  of  all  names  for  a 
woman!  Like  it?  Of  course  he  liked  it!  iWasn't 
it  hers? 


AND  THE  GLOEY  369 

"Anne,  you  have  n't  yet  said  when  you  will  marry 
me." 

"Oh,  but  you  are  sure  of  that!"  she  parried. 

"I  am  so  sure  of  it  that  I  am  quite  capable  of  tak- 
ing you  by  *he  hair  and  dragging  you  off  to  the  par- 
son 's,  if  you  try  to  make  me  wait.  Anne !  Remem- 
ber that  ever  since  I  was  that  barefooted,  lonely  child 
I  have  been  waiting  for  you.  My  dear,  I  need  you  so 
greatly!" 

She  said  passionately:  "You  cannot  need  me  as 
I  need  you.  You  are  yourself.  You  couldn't  be 
anything  else.  You  were  you  before  you  ever  saw  me. 
But  I — I  could  n't  be  my  real  self  until  you  came  and 
looked  at  me  and  kissed  me." 

He  felt  humble,  and  reverent,  and  at  the  same  time 
exultant.  When  she  said  presently,  "I  must  go  now," 
he  released  her  reluctantly.  They  walked  hand  in 
hand,  pausing  at  the  small  headland  beyond  which 
the  village  came  in  sight.  She  took  both  his  hands 
and  held  them  against  her  breast. 

"You  are  my  one  man.  I  love  you  so  much  that 
I  am  going  to  give  my  whole  life  into  your  hands,  as 
fully  and  as  freely  as  I  shall  some  day  give  my  spirit 
into  the  hands  of  God.  But,  Pierre,  there  are  those 
who  have  been  very,  very  kind  to  me,  those  to  whom  I 
owe — well,  explanations.  When  I  have  made  those 
explanations  and — and  settled  my  accounts, — then  all 
the  rest  of  my  life  is  yours." 

"You  are  very,  very  sure,  Anne?"  His  voice  was 
wistful. 

"My  love  for  you,"  she  said  proudly,  "is  the  one 


370  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

great  reality.  I  am  surer  of  that  than  I  have  ever 
been  of  anything  in  this  world."  And  she  stood 
there  looking  at  him  with  her  heart  in  her  eyes.  Of 
a  sudden,  with  a  little  cry,  she  pulled  his  head  down 
to  her,  kissed  him  upon  the  mouth,  pushed  him  from 
her,  and  fled. 

When  she  reached  her  room  again,  she  couldn't 
sleep,  but  knelt  by  her  window  and  watched  the  skies 
pale  and  then  flush  like  a  young  girl's  face,  and  the 
morning-star  blaze  and  pale,  and  the  sun  come  up 
over  a  bright  and  beautiful  world  in  which  she  her- 
self was,  she  felt,  new-born.  Far  in  the  background 
of  things,  unreal  as  a  dream,  hovered  the  unlovely 
figure  of  Nancy  Simms,  and  nearer,  but  still  almost 
as  unreal,  the  bright,  cold  figure  of  Anne  Champneys, 
that  Anne  Champneys  who  had  wished  to  marry  Ber- 
keley Hayden  to  gratify  pride  and  ambition.  The 
woman  kneeling  by  the  window,  watching  the  glory  of 
the  morning,  looked  back  upon  those  two  as  a  winged 
butterfly  might  remember  its  caterpillar  crawlings. 

All  that  glittering  life  Anne  Champneys  had 
planned  for  herself?  Swept  away  as  if  it  had  been 
a  bit  of  tinsel !  Money  ?  Position  ?  She  laughed  low 
to  herself.  She  didn't  care  whether  her  man  had 
possessions  or  lacked  them.  All  she  asked  was  that 
he  should  be  himself — and  hers.  All  that  Milly  had 
been  to  Chadwick  Champneys — the  passionate  lover, 
the  perfect  comrade,  the  friend  nothing  daunted,  no 
wind  of  fortune  could  change — Anne  could  be,  would 
be  to  Pierre. 

There  was  but  one  shadow  upon  her  new  happiness : 


AND  THE  GLORY  371 

she  hated  to  disappoint  Marcia.  Marcia  had  set  her 
heart  upon  the  Hayden  marriage.  It  was  toward  that 
consummation,  so  devoutly  to  be  hoped,  that  Marcia 
had  planned.  And  just  when  that  plan  was  nearing 
perfection  Anne  was  going  to  have  to  frustrate  it. 
She  hated  to  hurt  Hayden  himself,  and  the  thought 
of  his  angry  disappointment  was  painful  to  her.  She 
liked  Hayden.  She  would  always  like  him.  But  she 
couldn't  marry  him.  To  marry  Hayden,  loving 
Pierre,  would  have  been  to  work  them  both  an  irreme- 
diable injury.  A  sort  of  horror  of  what  she  had  been 
about  to  do  came  upon  her.  The  bare  thought  of  it 
made  her  recoil. 

Her  native  shrewdness  told  her  that  Hayden 's  im- 
mense pride  would  come  to  his  aid.  The  fact  that 
she  had  dared  to  desire  somebody  else,  to  prefer  an- 
other to  his  lordly  self  would  be  enough  to  prove  to 
Hayden  that  she  was  n't  worthy  of  his  affections.  He 
would  feel  that  he  had  been  deceived  in  her.  She 
couldn't  help  hoping  that  he  wouldn't  altogether 
despise  her.  She  hoped  that  Marcia  would  n't  be  too 
angry  to  forgive  her.  And  then  her  thoughts  merged 
into  a  prayer :  Oh  dear  God,  help  her  to  make  Pierre 
happy,  to  grow  to  his  stature,  to  be  worthy  of  him ! 

Back  there  on  the  beach  he  lay  with  his  head  in  his 
arms,  humble  before  the  power  and  the  glory  that 
had  come  to  him.  This,  this  was  the  face  he  had  al- 
ways sought,  the  beauty  that  had  so  long  eluded  him  1 
Beauty,  mere  physical  beauty,  appealed  to  him  as  it 
always  appeals  to  an  artist,  but  it  had  never  had  the 


372  THE  PUEPLB  HEIGHTS 

power  to  hold  him  for  any  length  of  time.  It  had 
palled  upon  him.  To  satisfy  his  demand,  beauty 
must  have  upon  it  the  ineffable  imprint  of  the  soul. 
This  woman's  face  was  as  baffling,  as  inexplicable,  in 
its  way,  as  was  Mona  Lisa's.  One  wasn't  sure  that 
she  was  beautiful ;  one  was  only  sure  that  she  was  un- 
forgetable,  and  that  after  other  faces  had  faded  from 
the  memory,  hers  remained  to  haunt  the  heart.  And 
that  red  hair  of  hers,  like  the  hair  of  a  Norse  sun- 
goddess  ! 

He  fell  into  pleasant  dreams.  He  was  going  to  take 
her  down  south  with  him;  he  wanted  her  to  see  that 
little  brown  house  in  South  Carolina,  to  know  the 
tide-water  gurgling  in  the  Eiverton  coves,  and  mock- 
ing-birds singing  to  the  moonlit  night,  and  the  voice 
of  the  whippoorwill  out  of  the  thickets.  She  must 
know  the  marshes,  and  the  live-oaks  hung  with  moss. 
All  the  haunts  of  his  childhood  she  should  know,  and 
old  Emma  Campbell  would  sit  and  talk  to  her  about 
his  mother.  They  would  stay  in  the  little  house  hal- 
lowed by  his  mother's  mild  spirit.  And  he  would 
show  her  that  first  sketch  of  the  Red  Admiral.  And 
afterward  they  two  would  plan  how  to  make  the  best 
use  of  the  Champneys  money.  He  was  very,  very 
sure  of  her  sympathy  and  her  understanding.  Why, 
you  couldn't  look  into  her  eyes  without  knowing  how 
exquisite  her  sympathy  would  be ! 

He  was  so  stirred,  so  thrilled,  that  the  creative 
power  that  had  seemed  to  fail  him,  that  had  left  him 
so  emptily  alone  these  many  bitter  months,  came  to 
him  with  a  rush.  He  got  to  his  feet  and  went  tramp- 


AND  THE  GLORY  373 

ing  up  and  down  the  strip  of  shore,  his  eyes  clouded 
with  visions.  Before  his  mind's  eye  the  picture  he 
meant  to  paint  took  shape  and  form  and  color.  And 
as  he  walked  home  he  whistled  like  a  happy  boy. 

He  had  brought  his  materials  along  with  him  as  a 
matter  of  habit.  "With  his  powers  at  high  tide,  in 
the  first  glamour  of  a  great  passion,  he  set  himself 
to  work  next  morning  to  portray  her  as  his  heart  knew 
her. 

He  worked  steadily,  stopping  only  when  the  light 
failed.  He  was  so  absorbed  in  his  task  that  he  forgot 
his  body.  But  Grandma  Baker  was  a  wise  old  woman, 
and  she  came  at  intervals  and  forced  food  upon  him. 
Then  he  slept,  and  awoke  with  the  light  to  rush  back 
to  his  work.  His  old  rare  gift  of  visualizing  a  face 
in  its  absence  had  grown  with  the  years ;  and  this  was 
the  face  of  all  faces.  There  was  not  a  shade  or  a  line 
of  that  face  he  didn't  know.  And  after  a  while  she 
appeared  upon  his  canvas,  breathing,  immensely  alive, 
with  the  inmost  spirit  of  her  informing  her  gray- 
green  eyes,  her  virginal  mouth,  her  candid  and 
thoughtful  brow.  There  she  stood,  Anne  as  Peter 
Champneys  knew  and  loved  her. 

He  had  done  great  work  in  his  time.  But  this  was 
painted  with  the  blood  of  his  heart.  This  was  his 
high-water  mark.  It  would  take  its  place  with  those 
immortal  canvases  that  are  the  slow  accretions  of  the 
ages,  the  perfectest  flowerings  of  genius.  He  was 
swaying  on  his  feet  when  he  painted  in  the  Red  Ad- 
miral. Then  he  flung  himself  upon  his  bed  and  slept 
like  a  dead  man. 


374  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

When  he  awoke,  she  seemed  to  be  a  living  presence 
in  his  room.  He  gasped,  and  sat  with  his  hands  be- 
tween his  knees,  staring  at  her  almost  unbelievingly. 
He  looked  at  the  Bed  Admiral  above  his  signature, 
and  fetched  a  great,  sighing  breath. 

"We  've  done  it  at  last,  by  God!"  said  he,  soberly. 
"Fairy,  we  've  reached  the  heights!" 

But  when  he  appeared  at  the  breakfast-table 
Grandma  Baker  regarded  him  with  deep  concern. 

"My  land  o'  love!"  she  exclaimed.  "Why,  you 
look  like  you  been  buried  and  dug  up !" 

"Permit  me,"  said  he,  politely,  "to  congratulate 
you  upon  your  perspicacity.  That  is  exactly  what 
happened  to  me." 

"Eh!"  said  Grandma,  setting  her  spectacles 
straight  on  her  old  nose. 

"And  let  me  add:  It  's  worth  the  price!"  said 
the  resurrected  one,  genially.  ' '  Grandma  Baker,  were 
you  very  much  in  love?" 

"Abner  tried  his  dumdest  to  find  that  out,"  said 
Grandma  Baker.  "He  was  the  plaguedest  man  ever 
was  for  wantin'  to  know  things,  but  somehow  I  sort 
o '  did  n  't  want  him  changed  any.  You  got  ways  put 
me  mightily  in  mind  o'  Abner."  The  old  eyes  were 
very  sweet,  and  a  wintry  rose  crept  into  her  withered 
cheek.  She  added:  "I  know  what's  ailin'  you, 
young  man!  Lord  knows  I  hope  you  '11  be  happy  as 
Abner  and  me  was!" 

He  went  back  to  his  room  and  communed  with  his 
picture.  It  was  the  sort  that,  if  you  stayed  with  it 
a  little  while,  liked  to  commune  with  you.  It  would 


AND  THE  GLORY  375 

divine  your  mood,  and  the  eyes  followed  you  with  an 
uncanny  understanding,  the  smile  said  more  than  any 
words  could  say.  You  almost  saw  her  eyelids  move, 
her  breast  rise  and  fall  to  her  breathing.  The  man 
trembled  before  his  masterpiece. 

His  heart  swelled.  He  exulted  in  his  genius,  a  high 
gift  to  be  laid  at  the  feet  of  the  beloved.  All  he  had, 
all  he  could  ever  be,  belonged  to  her.  She  had 
called  forth  his  best.  He  said  to  her  painted 
semblance : 

"You  are  my  first  love-gift.  I  am  going  to  send 
you  to  her,  and  she  '11  know  she  has  n't  given  her  love, 
her  beauty,  her  youth,  to  an  unworthy  or  an  obscure 
lover.  She  's  given  herself  to  me,  Peter  Champneys, 
and  because  she  loves  me  I  '11  give  her  a  name  she 
can  wear  like  a  crown :  I  '11  set  her  upon  the  purple 
heights!" 

She  was  at  the  far  end  of  the  Thatcher  garden,  be- 
hind the  house  and  hidden  from  it,  when  he  arrived 
with  the  canvas,  which  he  hadn't  dared  entrust  to 
any  other  carrier — he  was  too  jealously  careful  of  it. 
No,  he  told  Mrs.  Thatcher,  it  wasn't  necessary  to  dis- 
turb her  guest.  Just  allow  him  to  place  the  canvas 
in  Mrs.  Riley  's  sitting-room.  She  would  find  it  there 
when  she  returned. 

Mrs.  Thatcher  complied  willingly  enough.  She 
liked  the  tall,  black-bearded  man  whom  shrewd  old 
Grandma  Baker  couldn't  praise  sufficiently. 

"Excuse  me  for  not  goin'  up  with  you,  on  account 
of  my  hands  bein'  in  the  mixin'-bowl.  It  's  a  pic- 
ture, ain't  it?  You  just  step  right  upstairs  and  set 


376  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

it  on  the  mantel  or  anywheres  you  like.  I  '11  tell  her 
you  been  here." 

And  so  he  placed  it  on  the  mantel,  where  the  north 
light  fell  full  upon  it,  waved  his  hand  to  it,  and  went 
away.  It  would  tell  her  all  that  was  in  his  heart  for 
her.  It  would  explain  himself.  The  Red  Admiral 
would  assure  that ! 

Anne  had  been  having  rather  a  troublesome  time. 
She  had  written  to  Marcia  and  to  Berkeley  Hayden 
the  night  before,  and  the  letters  had  been  posted  only 
that  morning.  She  had  had  to  be  very  explicit,  to 
make  her  position  perfectly  plain  to  them  both,  and 
the  letters  had  not  been  easy  to  write.  But  when  she 
had  finally  written  them,  she  had  really  succeeded  in 
explaining  her  true  self.  There  was  no  doubt  as  to 
her  entire  truthfulness,  or  the  finality  of  this  deci- 
sion of  hers.  When  she  posted  those  letters,  she 
knew  that  a  page  of  her  life  had  been  turned  down, 
the  word  " Finis"  written  at  the  bottom  of  it.  She 
had  tossed  aside  a  brilliant  social  career,  a  high  posi- 
tion, a  great  fortune, — and  counted  it  all  well  lost. 
Her  one  regret  was  to  have  to  disappoint  Marcia. 
She  loved  Marcia.  And  she  hoped  that  Berkeley 
wouldn't  despise  her. 

She  was  agitated,  perturbed,  and  yet  rapturously 
happy.  She  wished  to  be  alone  to  hug  that  happi- 
ness to  her  heart,  and  so  she  had  gone  out  under  the 
apple-trees  at  the  far  end  of  the  Thatcher  orchard, 
and  lay  there  all  her  long  length  in  the  good  green 
grass.  The  place  was  full  of  sweet  and  drowsy  odors. 
Birds  called  and  fluted.  Butterflies  and  bees  came 


AND  THE  GLOBY  377 

and  went.  She  had  never  felt  so  close  to  Mother 
Earth  as  she  did  to-day,  never  so  keenly  sensed  the 
joy  of  being  alive. 

After  a  while  she  arose,  reluctantly,  and  went  back 
to  the  house  and  her  rooms.  She  was  remembering 
that  she  had  n't  yet  written  to  Jason,  and  she  wanted 
Jason  to  know.  Inside  her  sitting-room  door  she 
stopped  short,  eyes  widened,  lips  fallen  apart.  On 
the  mantel,  glowing,  jewel-like  in  the  clear,  pure  light, 
herself  confronted  her.  Herself  as  a  great  artist  saw 
and  loved  her. 

She  stood  transfixed.  The  sheer  power  and  beauty 
of  the  work,  that  spell  which  falls  upon  one  in  the 
presence  of  all  great  art,  held  her  entranced.  Her 
own  eyes  looked  at  her  as  if  they  challenged  her; 
her  own  smile  baffled  her;  there  was  that  in  the  pic- 
tured face  which  brought  a  cry  to  her  lips.  Oh,  was 
she  so  fair  in  his  eyes?  Only  great  love,  as  well  as 
great  genius,  could  have  so  portrayed  her ! 

This  was  herself  as  she  might  be,  grown  finer,  and 
of  a  larger  faith,  a  deeper  and  sweeter  charity.  A 
sort  of  awe  touched  her.  This  man  who  loved  her, 
who  had  the  power  of  showing  her  herself  as  she 
might  pray  to  become,  this  wonderful  lover  of  hers, 
was  no  mere  amateur  with  a  pretty  gift.  This  was 
one  of  the  few,  one  of  the  torch-bearers ! 

And  then  she  noticed  the  Bed  Admiral  in  the  cor- 
ner. She  stared  at  it  unbelievingly.  That  butterfly ! 
Why— why—  She  had  read  of  one  who  signed  with 
a  butterfly  above  his  name  pictures  that  were  called 
great.  A  thought  that  made  her  brain  swim  and  her 


378  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

heart  beat  suffocatingly  crashed  upon  her  like  a  clap 
of  thunder.  She  walked  toward  the  mantel  like  one 
in  a  daze,  until  she  stood  directly  before  the  painting. 

And  it  was  his  butterfly.  And  under  it  was  his 
name :  Peter  Devereaux  Champneys. 

The  room  bobbed  up  and  down.  But  she  didn't 
faint,  she  didn't  scream.  She  caught  hold  of  the 
mantel  to  steady  herself.  She  wondered  how  she 
had  n  't  known ;  she  had  the  same  sense  of  wild  amaze- 
ment that  must  fill  one  who  has  been  brought  face  to 
face  with  a  stupendous,  a  quite  impossible  miracle. 
Such  a  thing  could  n't  happen :  and  yet  it  is  so !  And 
oddly  enough,  out  of  this  welter  of  her  thoughts, 
there  came  to  her  memory  a  screened  bed  in  a  hos- 
pital ward,  and  a  dying  gutter-girl  looking  at  her  with 
unearthly  eyes  and  telling  her  in  a  thin  whisper : 

"I  wanted  to  see  if  you  was  good  enough  for  him. 
You  ain't.  But  remember  what  I  'm  tellin'  you — 
you  could  be." 

Pierre — Peter  Champneys!  She  slipped  to  her 
knees  and  hid  her  face  in  her  shaking  hands.  Peter 
Champneys !  As  in  a  lightning  flash  she  saw  him  as 
that  girl  Gracie  had  seen  him.  Pierre — Pierre  with 
his  eyes  of  an  archangel,  his  lips  that  were  the  chrism 
of  life — this  was  Peter  Champneys!  And  she  had 
hated  him,  let  him  go,  all  unknowing,  she  had  wished 
to  put  in  his  place  Berkeley  Hayden.  The  handsome, 
worldly  figure  of  Hayden  seemed  to  dwindle  and 
shrink.  Pierre  stood  as  on  a  height,  looking  at  her 
steadfastly.  Her  head  went  lower.  Tears  trickled 
between  her  fingers. 


AND  THE  GLORY  379 

You  ain't  good  enough  for  him,  but  you  could  be. 
"I  can  be,  I  can  be  I    Oh,  God,  I  can  be !    Only  let 
him  love  me — when  he  knows!" 

She  heard  Mrs.  Thatcher's  voice  downstairs,  after 
a  while.  Then  a  deeper  voice,  a  man's  voice,  with  a 
note  of  impatience  and  eagerness  in  it. 

"No,  don't  call  her.  I  '11  go  right  on  up,"  said 
the  voice,  over  the  feminine  apologies  and  protests. 
"I  have  to  see  her — I  must  see  her  now.  No,  I  can't 
wait." 

Somebody  came  flying  up  the  steps.  She  hadn't 
closed  her  door,  and  his  tall  figure  seemed  to  fill  it. 
He  stopped,  with  a  gasp,  at  sight  of  the  weeping 
woman  kneeling  before  the  picture  on  the  mantel. 

' '  Anne ! "  he  cried.  ' '  Anne ! ' '  And  he  would  have 
raised  her,  but  she  clung  to  his  knees,  lifting  her  tear- 
stained  face,  her  eyes  full  of  an  adoration  that  would 
never  leave  them  until  life  left  them. 

"Peter!"  she  cried.  "Peter!  That— that  butter- 
fly !  I  know  now,  Peter ! ' ' 

Again  he  tried  to  raise  her,  but  she  clasped  his 
knees  all  the  closer. 

"You  mean  you  know  my  name  is  really  Peter 
Champneys,  dearest?" 

But  she  caught  his  hands.  "Peter,  Peter,  don't  you 
understand?"  she  cried,  laughing  and  weeping.  "I 
— I  'm  the  ogress!  I  'm  Nancy  Simms!  I  'm  Anne 
Champneys!" 

He  looked  from  her  to  her  portrait  and  back  again. 
He  gave  a  great  ringing  cry  of,  "My  wife!"  and 
lifted  her  in  a  mighty  grip  that  swept  her  up  and 


380  THE  PURPLE  HEIGHTS 

into  his  arms.    "My  wife!"  he  cried.    "My  wife!" 
Undoubtedly  the  Red  Admiral  was  a  fairy ! 

On  a  certain  morning  Mr.  Jason  Vandervelde  was 
sitting  at  his  desk,  disconnectedly  dictating  a  letter 
to  his  secretary.  He  was  finding  it  very  difficult  to 
fix  his  mind  upon  his  correspondence.  What  the  mis- 
chief was  happening  up  there  in  Maine,  anyhow? 
She  hadn't  written  for  some  time;  and  he  hadn't 
had  a  word  from  Peter  Champneys.  And  when  Mar- 
cia  came  home  and  found  out  he  'd  been  meddling — 
well,  the  meddler  would  have  to  pay  the  fiddler,  that  's 
all! 

The  office  boy  came  in  with  a  telegram.  Mr.  Van- 
dervelde paused  in  his  dictation,  tore  open  the  en- 
velop, and  read  the  message.  And  then  the  horrified 
secretary  saw  an  amazing  and  an  awesome  sight.  Mr. 
Jason  Vandervelde  bounced  to  his  feet  as  lightly  as 
though  he  had  been  a  rubber  ball,  and  performed  a 
solemnly  joyful  dance  around  his  office.  His  eye- 
glasses jigged  on  his  nose,  a  lock  of  his  sleekly  brushed 
hair  fell  upon  his  forehead.  Meeting  the  fixed  stare 
of  the  secretary,  he  winked!  And  with  a  sort  of 
elephantine  religiosity  he  finished  his  amazing  meas- 
ure, caught  once  more  the  glassy  eye  of  the  secretary, 
and  panted : 

"King  David  danced  before  the  ark — of  the  Lord. 
For  which  reason — your  salary  ia  raised — from  to- 
day." 

He  stopped  then,  snatched  the  telegram  off  hia  desk, 
and  read  it  again : 


AND  THE  GLORY  381 

We  have  met  and  I  har«  married  my  wife.  Anne  sends  love. 
Thank  you  and  God  bless  you,  Vandervelde! 

PBTEB  CHAMPNETS. 

"Put  up  that  note-book.  Take  a  day  off.  Go  and 
enjoy  yourself.  Be  happy !"  said  Vandervelde  to  the 
secretary.  Then  he  snatched  up  the  desk  telephone. 

"The  florist's?  Yes?  How  soon  can  you  get  six 
dozen  bride  roses  up  here,  to  Mr.  Vandervelde 's  office  ? 
Yes,  this  is  Mr.  Vandervelde  speaking.  You  can! 
Well,  there  's  a  thumping  tip  for  somebody  who  knows 
how  to  rush!  Half  an  hour?  Thank  you.  I  11 
wait  for  'em  here." 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  and  turned  his  beaming 
countenance  to  the  stunned  secretary.  His  eyes  twin- 
kled like  little  blue  stars,  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
curled  more  than  usual. 

"Anne  and  Peter  Champneys  have  been  and  gone 
and  married  each  other!"  he  chuckled.  "I  'm  going 
to  take  a  earful  of  bride  roses  around  td  the  Champ- 
neys house  and  put  'em  under  old  Chadwick  Champ- 
neys's  portrait!" 


THE  END 


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